


Friday Night Candles

by Prospero



Series: Choices [2]
Category: Merchant of Venice - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: Anti-Semitic Societies, Creating Family, Dark Humor, Gen, Homophobic Societies, Hopeful Redemption, M/M, Psychological Drama, Religious Questioning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-15
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2017-12-15 01:06:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 36,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/843530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prospero/pseuds/Prospero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I do not fear hell. I lived it for years. If Satan comes for me, I'll laugh in his face." Most of Venice is sure Shylock has no friends, no daughter, and no conscience. Most of Venice isn't quite right about that. Sequel to "Usurer's Mercy."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Psalms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read This First!
> 
> This story is a sequel. This means that if you haven't read "Usurer's Mercy," which you can find on my author's page, you'll have no idea why everyone's doing what they're doing. Read at your own risk. In terms of warnings, if you can handle "Usurer's Mercy," you can handle this. 
> 
> This story has two parts. The first has only background pairings, and can be self-contained. The second has slash, though nothing explicit. Skip it if you don't like that sort of thing. I will inform you all in an author's note when the transition kicks in.
> 
> I have based the age of these characters off the actors in my favorite production of Merchant of Venice. In that one, Jessica was in her late teens, Bassanio and Lorenzo and their friends were in their twenties, and Shylock and Antonio were in their forties. Just to give you a visualization.
> 
> Beta'd by Anbessette. Many thanks!
> 
> Now (finally) on with the story!

I miss Jessica.

She thought I hated her trying to be merry in our dark house. Truthfully, I loved to hear her laugh. But I did not wish to raise a daughter who expected her life to be joyful. As a child, I believed I would be happy when I grew up, and I had been crushed so badly by reality that I became determined never to make that mistake with my own children.

Most of the time, I try to think of Jessica as little as possible. As a devout Christian, she cannot afford to reconcile with me, baptized though I have been. I dearly despise the people who made me a Christian, and myself for giving in to them. But I did want to live, though for what I did not know, then.

But now I am not sorry. Because there is a man in this house who would have died if not for me—a man I once hated, and to some extent still do.

I lean on the wall beside the staircase. There's a wedding in the air; perhaps that's why I cannot help but think of Jessica. My servant Ignazio will be married soon. He and I met with the notary today, and he should be glad I was there, for his mind is as addled as a bad egg—at least in my view. The fool was actually going to accept the first dowry amount proposed by his bride Rosalba's employer. Giacobbe is a miser and Ignazio deserves better, even if he grates on my nerves.

To be fair, I'm quite the miser myself. But I'm hardly interested in being fair, not late at night when I cannot sleep for thoughts of my daughter. 

Well, there's no point in dwelling on what I cannot change. I push myself off the wall and turn towards my bedroom door—and stop at the sound of a thump, and then a sob, from the room I hate to enter.

It would be so easy to leave him alone, and that's probably what he would prefer. But I have been deaf to others' distress in the past and it profited me not. 'Tis that impulse—I am impulsive, no one has denied it—that makes me push open the door and walk in.

"I heard you."

Antonio glares at me. He has bruised and bloody knuckles, and there's more blood on my wall. "You would. Get out."

"No. 'Tis my house." I never get tired of that excuse. "Besides, you'll break your hand if you do not take care."

"And that would bother you because...?"

I roll my eyes. "I think we have established by this point that I'm somewhat concerned for your welfare." Those words are easier to say than _I care about you._ "Even if I still despise you."

"I hate you too." Antonio rubs his hand.

"Glad to hear it. Why are you doing this? Have you not been beaten enough?"

"Do you not know what it means to be angry?"

The man is such a fool. "You are truly asking that question? I would bring down this house if I hit the walls every time I went enraged."

Antonio shakes his head. "I have no true reason to...I understand why they did as they did."

I sit down on a nearby stool. "Enlighten me, for I do not. A man who cast you off and a mob who beat you and—"

"Stop it."

"Do tell me how you excuse them."

"How can I do anything else, when I led Bassanio to sin with me in the first place?" Antonio passes a hand over his eyes. "He was young, still is. He could hardly understand what it means to hide what you desire from everyone, knowing if you slip you'll be imprisoned or killed."

That's true, and I had not thought of it. But it still seems to me no justifiable reason.

He continues. "What could I offer him but years of secrecy and fear? Portia could give him everything—a kind wife, riches, no need to worry if what he does is a sin before God. I do not blame him for turning from me to keep her love."

"What of the mob?"

"Would you not pay back a man you believed had forced another? You planned to cut out my heart."

"Who am I, your new model of morality? What kind of God would demand that kind of recompense?"

Antonio half-laughs. "God. In the space of a minute I bless him for giving me life and blame him for the horror of it."

My mouth twists. "'My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? I cry by day, but you do not answer, and by night, but find no rest.'"

"What do you mean?"

"'Tis a psalm, you fool. A psalm of David. Surely you have those in your Christian Bible?" I doubt he would recognize my rough translation from the Hebrew if he read it in his own holy text, though.

"A psalm? I have read many, but not that one."

"I knew it by heart once." I lean my elbows on my knees. "No more—but what I do remember... 'For dogs are all around me, a company of evildoers encircles me. My hands and feet have shriveled, I can count all my bones. They stare and gloat over me, they divide my clothes among themselves, and for my clothing they cast lots.'"

There is a silence, then Antonio speaks. "That reminds me of—I do not like your version of the Bible."

"'Tis all the same Bible," I reply, irked. "Read it yourself."

"I should like to, but I doubt you keep a Christian Bible in this house of yours."

"As it happens, I do. It was a present." I roll my eyes at the absent giver.

"Who took a brain fever and bought you a Bible?"

"Brother Rafaele. That cursed priest who instructs me in _the faith."_ I had made the mistake, the second time we met, of mentioning I knew a little Latin. "He predicted I would read it so that I could try to prove him wrong about every verse he brings up."

"I'll wager you threw it under a bed and never looked at it again."

I snort. "You'd lose your money. I make a mark on the first page every time he admits to having been mistaken. But you are welcome to the thing, for now."

For a moment, Antonio looks wistful, then he glares. "Do not taunt me with that."

"Much as I enjoy taunting you, I am not, verily." I stand up, march from the room, and grab the book from where I dropped it on the floor, hardly caring that a few pages get torn in the process, and walk back to Antonio's room. It rather disturbs me that I have come to think of it as his.

Antonio looks at my Bible, almost greedily. I resist the urge to hold it out of his reach as long as I can. I toss it at him instead, perversely glad when he fumbles and misses and the book gets even more bent. "Here. Have it. Save your soul if you can."

He clutches it as if 'tis a rope thrown to him in a storm. "Ah. I suppose I should—thank you."

"There is no need. I care not for Bibles." I turn around and stride from the room, snapping the door shut behind me. Outside, I lean against the wall and wonder just what I'm doing. Trying to give Antonio comfort is outrageous. He deserves it not. And I do not deserve any credit that may be given to me for doing so. Most of what I have done, I have done in spite, merely to prove to Antonio, or to myself, that I am more merciful than he.

**OoOoO**

"I hate weddings."

"You hate everything."

I shoot Antonio a poisonous look over the spices I'm grinding in the mortar. "This would hurt if I threw it at your head." 

"Well, I still think you should use the sugared almonds."

The worst part of this particular wedding is my nemesis trying to order me around. However little I know about marriage, he knows less. "I do not have sugared almonds."

"Yes, you do," Antonio says, undeterred. "You bought them yesterday." I thought he had not seen that. 'Tis the worst time for Antonio to start being observant. He's usually obnoxiously self-preoccupied. "And what's wrong with weddings in any case?"

"They make people happy. Without any bloodshed at all." An unbiased observer would no doubt point out that even bloodshed does not guarantee joy on my part these days. But I dislike impartial observers, and do not let them anywhere near me.

Antonio ignores this. "If you really did not want Ignazio to marry, you could have stopped it. He's your servant."

"If he wants to commit the idiotic act of marrying a poor girl with an illegitimate child, I'm not going to—"

"And you helped him negotiate with Rosalba's master."

 _"Someone_ had to drag that drunkard in front of a notary and make him pledge to pay what he had promised."

"The same _someone_ who came up with money so Ignazio could buy the clothes and sheets he's supposed to provide for his wife?"

"I'll slaughter the next person who brings this up."

"Who was the first?"

"Brother Rafaele, damn him. His yammering makes my ears ring."

"Do not curse priests!"

"Go take poison!" We subside into glares and mutterings. There's always something to fight over.

Ignazio dashes into the kitchen, nearly knocking over two pans of rising bread. Nerves apparently make him clumsy. I spare a moment to pray for Rosalba's good health so we never have to go through another marriage.

"If thou break'st much more, there'll be not a dish left in the house," I inform him.

"Do you think it will be all right, Master Shylock?" Ignazio hovers around me nervously.

"Thou hast already signed that contract," I grumble, checking to see if the fish I'm cooking is done. "It had better be all right."

Ignazio waves away the small matter of legal documents. "I mean the wedding night. Could you tell me how—"

No. No. I refuse to be consulted about this. It has been years since I did anything of...that sort. I cut him off. "Why, by all the gold in Venice, art thou asking _me?"_

"My friends always talk about what the best thing a woman can do to you is. But I already know all about that, because there was a time—"

I cover my ears. "Do not tell me!" I catch Antonio trying to restrain laughter, and mime slashing a throat with a knife.

Ignazio continues. "But I do not know what the best thing a man can do to a woman is. I just want Rosalba...I mean...I want it to be well for her."

Irritated, I cast my eyes upwards. He cannot very well ask Antonio; the man is as fond of women in his bed as I am of the inside of a church door. "Do not go too fast. Thou art not bedding her to the clock. And if she seems afraid, speak with her first. Thou talk'st too much as it is; thou canst put that to good use." There's a knock at the door and I move to answer it.

My servant trails after me, chattering. "That sounds like good advice. My friends never know what they are talking about. They told me I would be quiet if they pushed me in the canal. They were wrong." He goes back towards the kitchen.

"Of course they were." I go to open the door and yell one last piece of advice after him. "Thou canst ask her what she likes. She has a child; she's no virgin." I turn, and see Brother Rafaele on my steps.

"Signor Shylock! It pleases me greatly to be sought out for this!" Brother Rafaele steps over my threshold, smiling.

Antonio appears in the doorway, pale as a ghost, and shoots upstairs at the sight of the priest. I'm not terribly surprised. The last time they saw each other, Brother Rafaele tried to take Antonio's confession. Said thorn in my side gave him an earful about suicide and then collapsed unconscious. Besides, I have noticed Antonio hates strange footsteps.

Brother Rafaele blinks at me. "What did I do?"

"You did nothing. He's an idiot."

"That's not terribly charitable," Brother Rafaele points out. "The Bible instructs us to treat others as we would be treated ourselves."

"If I'm being a fool, I would rather someone told me so."

"Very well, I shall remember that for the future. Where's the bridegroom?"

"Here!" Ignazio hops up and down. I swear he's truly six years old. A six-year-old who will enthusiastically bed a woman tonight. I shudder.

"We must speak," Brother Rafaele tells Ignazio. "'Tis best to instruct a man of what marital duties are required by our faith."

"Oh, maybe you can help me. Master Shylock says that on my wedding night—"

"No." I cut him off. "Absolutely not. I'll crack open thy rib cage and feast on thy entrails."

Brother Rafaele shakes his head. "Signor Shylock?"

"What?"

"You are being a fool."

I'm undoubtedly going to hell for all the horrible things I am imagining doing to everyone in my house right now. But I resigned myself to that some time ago.

**OoOoO**

How, by every ducat I possess, did _I_ end up holding Rosalba's baby? Antonio must have dropped a drug in my wine. Except that he was hiding upstairs the whole time, being the accused criminal that he is. This puts me in even more of a foul mood. I enjoy being able to blame Antonio for everything.

Of course, I myself am at fault for this, offering to take Teresa—that's her name, I recall—for a few hours while Ignazio and Rosalba consummate their marriage. Ignazio was so terribly excited about that, I finally advised him to sew his own mouth shut.

Now Teresa is sobbing. She's not wet and was fed only recently. Remembering what I can of when Jessica was little, I put her over my shoulder and try to bring up any air in her stomach. That works, thank any God that may be looking after us. I have little experience with infants.

I rock and hum to Teresa, wondering what will become of her. I doubt the world will be kinder to a half-Moorish girl than to a Jew. And she cannot convert, cannot change who she is. I only hope that Ignazio and Rosalba will let her know that they, at least, are not ashamed to have her.

At least there are two of them. I try not to think (though at times I cannot help it) of how my life would have been different if Leah had lived past Jessica's second birthday. I recalled my friend Tubal and I teasing our prospective brides, they mocking us in their turn. Four years we had, four scant years of more happiness than I had ever known or have known since. If it had lasted, would I have still become so hateful?

At times I looked for love elsewhere, but I had no energy for true courting and no interest in being married for my money. Perhaps I ought to regret that. At least Jessica would have had a mother. But I cannot shake the idea that foisting myself off on any woman would have been a mistake, being as bitter as I am. And as for prostitutes—well, I found they disgust me.

"What are you doing?" 'Tis Antonio, damn him.

"Trying to get this blasted child to fall asleep so I do not strangle her. Why are you down here now?"

"I'm sick of studying the wall. And I wondered what you were humming. Your tongue is more accustomed to insults."

"You mean you can hear through the rot stuck in your ears?" Teresa stirs, complaining, and I resume rocking her. "'Tis a children's song. Surely you had a childhood. Or did you spring into this world a fully formed sinner?"

Antonio shrugs. "No, but I made up for lost time later. Being with men by the time I was—" he cuts himself off. "What of you, then? Fully formed sinner, or only three quarters?"

I snort. "Coveting what was my neighbors' since the age of ten. It was bad enough they were richer, they had to be true citizens too."

"What?"

"True citizens. Not aliens." I spit the word. "Surely you recall that court day. If an alien seeks the life of a citizen..." I trail off, and, more for something to do than anything else, I begin humming to Teresa again.

"You are good with children," Antonio finally says.

"Hardly. I learned what I had to after Leah died. She was sick well before that, so I did what I could to relieve her."

"How was she sick? I mean...I apologize. You do not have to answer that."

I shrug. "'Tis by far one of the least offensive questions you have asked me. The doctors say she had a tumor."

"Do you miss her?"

"Would you miss Bassanio if he died? Since you are so determined to love him?"

Antonio shudders. "Death for Bassanio? Do not talk of such things."

"My point exactly." I pause. "Perhaps if Leah had lived, Jessica would not have run off so. Run off to be married in a _Christian_ ceremony..."

"You just witnessed a Christian ceremony and it did not kill you," Antonio says testily. "What's so special about a Jewish one?"

"That's different," I snap. "Yes, mayhap that ceremony was decent. But it was decent because there were people to celebrate and there was money with which to start their lives. What friend of Jessica's was at her wedding, and what coin did Lorenzo have then?"

"Would you not be reconciled with them now?" Antonio says cautiously. "Jessica misses you."

I jerk, nearly waking Teresa up. "How in heaven or hell would you know a thing like that?"

"We lived at Belmont for a few weeks together before they took a house. I heard her asking Lorenzo one day if he remembered which creditor she traded your turquoise ring to, to see if she could get it back. And she has not lost the habit of not working on Saturdays. I think she might be glad to see you. Would you be glad to see her?"

"No. Yes. I know not." I change Teresa's position in my arms. "I should like to see that she is all right. As it happens, I should like to rip Lorenzo's arms off at the same time, but I suppose I might restrain myself."

"You had better."

"Do not tell me what to do."

"'Tis only fair. You have been telling me what to do all this time."

"It profits you," I retort.

"It hardly profits _you,_ " Antonio points out. "Unless you call a Shabbat with a smashed set of dishes profit."

"Oh, I do. We need to do that again."

"What, Shabbat?"

"No, smashing dishes." I raise an eyebrow. "Why did you think of Shabbat first?" Antonio mutters something. "I cannot hear you."

"All right! I enjoyed it!" Antonio glares at me. "No wonder, it reduces you from murderous carrion to slightly less murderous carrion."

"Ah, a miracle," I drawl. "I understand your awe. I'm rather puzzled by it myself."

**OoOoO**

"Bargaining for flour?" The voice has a smile in it. I turn to see Tubal, my old colleague, standing there with his wife Naomi. 'Tis she who spoke, I know. "You can use all the food you can get. You are thin as a rail, Shylock."

I have not seen Naomi since I converted, and I'm sure I did not deserve her kindness even before that. "'Tis my customary state. No doubt I'll starve to death someday."

Tubal rolls his eyes. "Good morning to you too."

The shopkeeper takes my coin and gestures Naomi forward. Soon they are arguing cheerfully over the price, and Tubal turns to me cautiously. "The...man in your house. Did you find help for him, or did he sojourn elsewhere on his own?"

"He has sojourned nowhere." Much to my aggravation. "And he insists upon starving himself to annoy me."

"You mean...he's still there?" Tubal looks startled. "And you are actually trying to make him eat?"

"I do not want a corpse on my hands." Actually, I do, but Antonio appears far too happy at the prospect of dying. I therefore oppose it with vehemence on principle.

"Well, I'm glad to see you have something to live for," Tubal says dryly. "A corpse-free household certainly is a desirable goal. But forgive me for doubting that's your only intention."

Resisting the urge to tell Tubal just where he can put his doubts, I glance over the marketplace instead. And then I see him.

His clothes are still fine—finer, in fact, than they were before. But it does him no good. Thin, hollow-eyed, a face far too lined. He's barely recognizable, but I do know him. 'Tis Bassanio.

What, by my oath, is he doing here, looking so? The last I heard, he had all a young man could want. I had assumed that Antonio's absence would be no real trouble to him. After all, if he'd truly cared for the man, he would not have betrayed him in the first place.

Now I look at his tormented appearance and wonder if I was wrong. Perhaps he regrets his actions. Perhaps he still loves Antonio. Not that it would do either of them any good. Would it?

"Shylock, what are you staring at?"

I jerk my eyes away. "I have to go. Tell your wife I do not plan to die before you come and dine with me again." And with this harebrained invitation, I plunge into the crowd.

**OoOoO**

I glare at the crucifix on Brother Rafaele's wall. "Do you priests get some kind of pleasure out of seeing a man being tortured, or is that there solely to sicken me?"

"'Tis there so we never forget the sacrifice God made for us," Brother Rafaele says patiently. "He sent his only Son to redeem mankind, beyond all costs."

"So Christ had to die to save men from their sins? What happened to God's eternal mercy? Was that suffering truly necessary for forgiveness?"

"Very well, Signor Shylock. If you would show me your theology, choose the first verse we read yourself. I'm not unwilling to listen to you." Brother Rafaele points at the crumpled Bible I have in my hands.

Despite myself, I open it. I recall quoting the story of Jacob's sheep to Antonio and Bassanio that day on the Rialto, when they entered into the bond. But that was merely to get under their skin. I do not recall the last time I read the Torah for purposes of faith, and now all I have is this Gospel. Worse than nothing, I often think.

The psalms are not full of woe, many are songs of praise, but I cannot help being drawn to those of the afflicted. Though it takes a bit of hunting, I eventually find the one I seek. Brother Rafaele is watching me, and his attentiveness is surprising. I tip the Bible properly towards the light, and read.

"Hear my prayer, O Lord, let my cry come to you. Do not hide your face from me in the day of my distress. For my days pass away like smoke, and my bones burn like a furnace. All day long my enemies taunt me, those who deride me use my name for a curse. For I eat ashes like bread, and mingle tears with my drink, for you have lifted me up and thrown me aside." I stop.

"Does it not go on to describe God's compassion?" Brother Rafaele asks quietly.

"It does." I shut the Bible with a snap. "But I know naught of compassion. I receive it not, I have it not."

"That seems untrue to me."

"All that's given to me, all that I give, is done in spite or out of necessity." I close my eyes briefly. "No God will forgive me when I carry all this anger and hate. I am beyond redemption, and you would hardly waste your time on me if the Duke had not declared that I must be instructed."

Brother Rafaele smiles. "Oh, I expect I could have come up with a convenient excuse to have one of my brothers in faith take over your instruction. Though I would not, for the sake of their sanity if nothing else."

I find his assurance that I could drive a priest out of his mind to be rather comforting. "You might as well accept I'll never be a good Christian."

"I'll be more than contented if you are a good man. Unfortunately, I have little control over that." Brother Rafaele takes his own Bible off the table and flips through it, stopping in what I can see upside down is the so-called Gospel of Matthew, and begins to read. "Enter through the narrow gate, for the gate is wide and the road is easy that leads to destruction, and there are many who take it. For the gate is narrow and the road is hard that leads to life, and there are few who find it."

He sets the book aside and looks at me intently. "When my fathers speak about this, they think it is we who have chosen, we who walk the narrow path, because we have dedicated our lives to faith. But I myself—I have assurance of God, and sleep untroubled by nightmares, and none taunt or revile me. So perhaps my road is truly wide and easy. I know not."

"They say, then, that the path to heaven is not easy?" I recall the words of the lawyer who defended Antonio in the court, that mercy dropped as the gentle rain in heaven upon the place beneath. Does this Bible say the opposite, then? "Do they bless us for choosing a more difficult path?"

"I should say so, yes."

I wonder why these Christians do not pay more attention to their own Bible.

**OoOoO**

_"Baruch ata Adonai, Eloheinu, melech ha'olam, asher kid'shanu be'mitz'votav v'tzivanu l'had'lik neir shel Shabbat."_

I might have expected some snide comment on the Shabbat prayer, but instead Antonio is staring silently into the candles, having already lowered his hands from his face. I was secretly shocked when he did that—shocked that he remembered I had done it last time, and that he had not neglected it solely to offend me.

Even if I do not truly believe in God anymore, it seems wrong to quarrel over a holy ritual, and so I have resigned myself to not talking at all. I retrieve our wine cups and say the prayer over them. Once that is done, I have to resist downing the whole cup in one mouthful, just to drink away this bizarre situation. It would likely only make matters worse.

'Tis Antonio who breaks the silence. "What's that called again?" He gestured at the covered challah on the table. "And why do you cover it?"

"Challah. There are many reasons 'tis covered. I was taught that challah is to remind us of the manna we received when we wandered in the wilderness. That manna was delivered to us covered in dew, so we cover the challah to imitate it." There. I can speak without insults. Even if I dislike it.

After I remove the cloth and say the blessing, we fall to eating. Antonio will not look at me, and I roll a piece of challah between my fingers. Part of me despises Antonio for somewhat ruining my feeling of rebelliousness over celebrating the holiday. Another part is smug that he, a supposedly devout Christian, seems to enjoy this.

And a third part—though I hate to admit it—wants Antonio here. To fight with, insult, and care for him in equal measure has given me reasons to live. It reminds me of caring for Jessica, in the years before I grew bitter enough for her to draw away from me.

The thought of Jessica makes me blurt out a question I have wondered about for eight months. "Your friends offered to trade their wives for you in that courtroom. Do you think they truly would have?"

Antonio finally looks at me. "I'm not sure. I know it bothers Portia, though."

"What? How would she have heard it?"

"Obviously, she—oh, of course you do not know. Portia was the lawyer who defended me, disguised as a man. Nerissa, Gratiano's wife, was her clerk."

My jaw drops. "What—I—that's—"

Antonio's face twitches a bit. "Yes, that was my reaction too."

I shake my head. "Then she did hear. Well, if she married Bassanio after that, she's a fool."

"Do not insult her!"

"Oh, shut your mouth. Can you really expect me to like the woman?"

"Can you expect me not to? She saved my life."

I choose to ignore this. "If those Christians truly would have handed over their wives for your life, how can you fault me for wishing my daughter had not married one?"

"They were being impulsive, I'm sure."

"You just said you were _not_ sure." I stare. "Are you trying to reassure me?"

Now 'tis Antonio's turn to ignore what I say. "Lorenzo is a good man."

"Hmm. You and I obviously have different ideas of what makes a good man."

"What is your idea, then?" Antonio asks sardonically.

I am about to snap out some provoking answer when I realize I am not truly positive. "I do not know. What's yours?"

Antonio looks surprised. No doubt he also expected the provoking answer. "I once thought it was those who followed God's laws. I still do, actually. I just am not sure what those laws are anymore."

'Tis odd for me to count confusion, ignorance, as a blessing on either of our parts. But I do. While we are both unsure it leaves room to—leaves room to what? Know each other better? That's the last thing I want. I want Antonio gone, out of my house, and I want these disturbing thoughts to go with him.

I have always been good at lying to myself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I don't know any Latin—and very little Hebrew, for that matter—I can't translate what these folks would have actually read in their holy texts. So these quotes are based on my own copy of the Bible, the New Revised Standard Version, and various online sources. Shylock quotes Psalm 22 to Antonio. He reads an abridged version of Psalm 102 to Brother Rafaele. Said priest reads a part of Matthew 7.
> 
> My use of pronouns: I follow the standard rules. A person uses "thou," or a variant of it, to address a social inferior like a servant or a child, an intimate like a very close friend or spouse, or if they want to insult somebody by being overly familiar. A person uses "you," or a variant of it, to address an equal in a more formal situation. Most of the relationships in this story are pretty clear-cut, except that between Shylock and Antonio, seeing as they're in the I-sort-of-respect-you-even-though-I-don't-like-you stage.


	2. The Greatest Sins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I try to be as historically accurate as I can. Inevitably I'll slip up, and my readers should feel free to correct me. However, when Shakespeare bases something in the original play off an untrue assumption he held about Venice, I'm going to go with that. It's fanfic, after all.
> 
> Since it appears Shakespeare didn't know there was a ghetto for Jews in Venice, he had Jessica run away with Lorenzo at night (when it would have been locked). Which presents a dilemma for this author, seeing as Jews couldn't own property outside the ghetto...I must throw up my hands and conclude that Shylock somehow rented a house somewhere.
> 
> This chapter has some point-of-view switching. I think I've made the transitions fairly clear.
> 
> Beta'd by Anbessette. Many thanks!

Market days are truly delightful. Everyone shoving and cursing at each other. A multitude of feet stretched out to trip me and elbows to jab at me. The fish-heads and discarded bones tossed from the stalls, the hawkers squalling in my face, and the rotten vegetables that occasionally fly through the air. Nothing quite like it to sweeten my mood.

Sarcasm aside, there are a few things I enjoy about buying food. I like squeezing every ducat I can out of the shopkeepers and hearing them mutter about how if everyone were like me, their families would starve. I like cutting in front of people and asking them what they are going to do about it. And I like it when someone falls in a canal or is attacked by pigeons and I can jeer at them.

And I'm taking the opportunity on this trip to do all three.

I have Rosalba with me, to buy proper sewing materials (of which we had almost none) and I can tell she's horribly embarrassed. I do not care, but I do refrain from mocking _her_ when she slips and tears her skirt. Well, mostly.

"Thou hast been rather too neat lately," I inform her as she takes my reluctantly-offered hand and struggles to her feet. "I'm glad to see thee trying to correct that. Do continue."

"I'm sorry. It will not happen again."

I roll my eyes. Everyone tries my patience, and I'm not about to admit that's as much my fault as the world's. "Highly unlikely. This is a market, thou may'st have heard of them. 'Tis difficult to walk, much less stand."

Rosalba ducks her head. I might think I was truly bothering her, but I have noticed 'tis a habit.

"Why dost thou do that?" I ask as we walk to the edge of the market. Not tactful, but tact matters little to me. "Thou never look'st anyone in the face, hardly."

"Does it displease you?"

"I care not. Stare at the ground all thou wish'st. But I cannot see why it appeals to thee."

Rosalba clutches her sewing supplies to her chest. "People think I'm furniture when I'm quiet and do not look at them. I know what happens to girls like me who are noticed."

"Staying silent will not protect thee from harm."

"What good would speaking do, when I am never believed?"

I pause in the street, ready to make some kind of argument—what, or why I am bothering, I know not—when I realize that someone behind me stopped at the same time I did. I glance over my shoulder to see if I recognize anyone. I do not. In fact, no one that I can see is standing still, they are all pinpoint-focused on their destinations or companions.

"What is it?" Rosalba asks.

"'Tis nothing." I gesture her to follow me.

At twenty paces someone jostles me and I drop my basket. Cursing in two of the many languages I know oaths in, I stoop to pick up the contents. And realize, as I grab the last of them, that the same footsteps have stopped. I whip around, and, again, see no one.

That is odd, and it worries me. I have been followed before, and it has never led to any good.

"Master Shylock," Rosalba says quietly to me. "I think there is a man behind us. I saw him disappear around that corner."

I straighten up, gripping my basket. "Walk. Do not run. There are many on the streets between here and home." I keep my voice steady and calm. "Whoever it is can do us no harm." We start off. I ignore my own advice and move a good bit faster than usual. "Did'st thou recognize him?"

"He is no one I know."

If there truly is a man following us, he seems uninterested in drawing nearer, and we arrive back at my house with no mishaps. Once inside, I lock the door and feel somewhat better.

There is sobbing from the kitchen, and Ignazio emerges, looking helpless. "She began to cry when I cleared out the ashes, Rosalba. I did everything thou told'st me to, but she will not sleep again."

I snarl profane words—no doubt instilling confidence in everyone—and stomp up the stairs. And nearly step on Antonio, who's fumbling around near one of my chests. "What are you doing?"

Antonio waves an ancient rag in the air, sending dust everywhere. "Cleaning. I think."

I sneeze violently and glare. "You _think_ wrong, obviously. What's the idea? Dusting?"

"That was the plan." Antonio swipes randomly at the top of one chest. "I'll explode if I have nothing to do, and Ignazio said I could help. He did not mention that you would show up and order me around. Again."

"Did he give you more than one of those?"

"Yes." He grabs another cloth from the floor. "Are you going to show me how 'tis done?"

I snatch the rag from his hand. "You apparently need me to. Do you not even know you must shake the cloth out the window to clear the dust from it?"

Antonio blinks. "Oh. That would make sense."

"Yes, that's what I said when Ignazio told me." I wrench open the window.

"Why do you not keep those open all the time? 'Tis July. Too warm in here."

"I hate sunshine."

"What? Afraid you'll shrivel up like a prune?" Antonio goes over to the window.

"As long as we are speaking of sour grapes, look to yourself. You are positively vinegar already." I run the cloth neatly across the top of the chest. "See, you cannot just wave it in the air and hope the dust disappears on its own."

Antonio returns with a clean rag and imitates the process. He's terrible at it. So was I at first, but I'm not about to tell him so. In fact, I'm about to come up with some insult about how an out-of-water fish is more industrious, when Ignazio comes bounding up.

"Master Shylock, there's a man to see you in the room downstairs. I like him."

"Thou like'st everyone. It would please me more if thou had'st a mortal enemy." I sigh. 'Tis probably Tubal, I should go and be courteous.

Ignazio grabs my abandoned dust-cloth. "Do not worry, Signor Antonio. You do not have to talk if you do not wish. I shall do it all for you." He dissolves into chatter I have no interest in listening to.

The thought of cooking for six instead of four, if Tubal and Naomi come over, pleases me greatly. I determine to remember that and not accidentally insult Tubal. He's not Antonio, and therefore I have no need to set him up like a target at which to shoot arrows. Arrows on fire. I walk into the room.

And nearly fall backwards, completely stunned. Because 'tis not Tubal standing there; 'tis, of all people, Bassanio. And he looks even worse up close. Gaunt-eyed, face twisted with days of fear, mouth pressed tight.

"What are you doing in my house?" I demand. "You and yours are nothing to me."

"Where is he?" Bassanio's voice sounds as bad as the rest of him, quiet and hoarse.

Now I'm puzzled. "Where is who?"

"Antonio. Thou know'st of him."

"What should I know?" I ask warily. "That he's wasting your wife's money at Belmont?"

A look of anguish flickers across Bassanio's face—replaced by fury. "Do not pretend thou dost not know. He's here."

Curse it, curse it by maggot-ridden corpses. How did Bassanio find out? Antonio is an accused criminal and I'm hiding him. If people knew of this, it could mean prison or worse. "Here? Why would he be here? Enemies, bond, pound of flesh, conversion, surely you remember?"

Bassanio's fists clench. "Thou would'st do him harm for that. I cannot think of a man less likely to show him mercy."

"What makes you think he would ask it of me?" I do my best to sound irritated, not half-panicked. "I have not seen a hair of him for months, and I dearly hope it stays that way."

"That's a lie! If thou dost not tell me where—"

_"Bassanio?"_

"Antonio." Bassanio takes in his friend's appearance at the door to the room, still pale and worn from fear and refusing to eat, and recoils as if he's been slapped. "What has happened to thee?"

"Do not worry for me," Antonio says, low. "I never wanted that."

Fear clenches in my stomach. 'Tis clear enough now that Bassanio has no interest in dragging his former lover up before the Council of Ten. I, however, am another matter.

"Shylock, would you please leave us alone?" Antonio doesn't take his eyes off Bassanio's face.

"What will you tell him?"

"'Tis none of your business. I believe the point of a private conversation is that 'tis _private."_

"A one-way trip to the gallows is my business," I snap. "And if you tell him I gave you your scars, that's exactly where I'll end up."

Antonio whips around and glares at me. "Do you jest? Do you find me that ungrateful? They can try and hang you. They'll have to get past me first. Now, will you _go away?"_

I choose not to dignify that with a reply, and slam the door on the way out.

**Antonio**

I'm completely astonished that Bassanio is here, and more astonished at my feelings over it. Half of me wants to embrace him, and the other half cringes at the very idea. I find my voice. "I do not understand. How did'st thou know where to look for me?"

"I have been searching since two weeks after thou left Belmont. I—"

"But that was more than a month ago!" I interrupt, shocked. "Thou hast kept it up for so long?"

"What else could I do?" Bassanio looks ready to reach for me, but aborts the gesture. I'm part disappointed, part grateful. "Ever since I lied about what we had done, I have longed to take it back. I came to Venice to put things to rights, if I could. As much as is possible."

"Dost thou mean I have nothing to fear, now?" I ask, fairly sure I'm misunderstanding. "They will not send me to prison? Will not—"

Bassanio looks ill. "By heaven, they will not. I never charged thee for anything before the law. And I told our friends the truth. They have been looking as well."

"But how didst thou know where to find me?"

"There was a priest—Brother Rafaele, I think his name was. He mentioned Shylock had a man in his house called Antonio." Bassanio shakes his head. "He seemed to think Shylock was giving thee charity."

"Thou did'st not tell him otherwise?" I cut in, upset.

"Of course I did. He doubted the truth of what I said. He must have been deceived somehow."

"No. Thou dost not understand. He has—" I stop. How am I supposed to explain this to Bassanio? He knows nothing of what has passed between us since the trial. I wonder if he will think my mind addled. "Bassanio, I will tell all, but thou must think no more of hurting Shylock. He has done naught to deserve it."

"Then how is it thou art practically a skeleton? I have never seen thee look worse."

I have never spoken, truly, of what happened to me, of why I have nightmares and half-starve myself. It was the doctor who told Shylock, and none besides them know. "My first night back—I knew I had to leave Venice soon, but I could not think where else to go, so I returned to my house. That night, two men broke in. I did not hear them until they—" I stop. How can I speak of this?

"What did they do?" Bassanio asks quietly. "Were they there to rob thee?"

I laugh, and it sounds unnaturally loud. "They were thieves, yes. They stole my health, my dignity, and my sanity in the space of about ten minutes."

"Antonio, art thou sick? Is that why thou art talking so? How can any man steal—"

"Thou dost not know, and I pray thou never will." I cannot tell the whole story, not to Bassanio. He thinks of me as a man who stood strong, who loved him, who would not falter even on the delivery of the bond. And I would prefer that it stay that way. I have no wish to inspire horror, or worse, pity, in him.

"Do not spare me. What happened? It punishes me to hear of thy pain."

"There is little to say of my pain. They dragged me out of the house and beat me." Bassanio goes white and I hasten. "Shylock and the doctor, they brought remedies to me. I recovered."

"I do not think thou understand'st. Thou hast nothing to fear from Shylock now, he cannot hurt thee. There is no need to defend him."

"Yes, there is. I have taken refuge under his roof, screamed insults and curses in his face, coughed up blood and fainted and put everyone in danger by being here. And yet he's kept me safe and demanded nothing in return."

"I understand none of this. Why would Shylock do any of that?"

"I have no idea and if he's to be believed, neither does he." I look at Bassanio. "Am I truly free to leave? Thou wilt not call the law down on me?"

"I never thought of such a thing, I promise. And if I can help...my guess is thou want'st nothing from me now, but if there's anything I can do, please tell me."

"What I want is for thee to go back to Portia," I tell him, pain making my chest hurt. I'm losing Bassanio again, and there's a part of me that longs for him to stay here in Venice. But the truth is, verily, that he lost me first. I can never truly trust him again.

I do not know if I can truly trust anyone. Not after what's happened.

"Go home to Portia. Tell her I'm sorry we caused her pain. And be happy, if thou can'st. Do not think about the time when we loved each other. It profits neither of us."

Bassanio swallows, then clears his throat. "'Tis true. We seem to have caused more grief than joy. Gratiano and I will go back to Belmont, as thou say'st. Wilt thou—?"

"I'll go back to my house. Eventually." The thought sickens me. I never want to walk through that door again, not after what was done to me beyond it. "Do Lorenzo and Jessica still keep their house here in Venice?"

"They do, and Lorenzo's been helping us search for thee."

"Would they allow me to stay for a time, dost thou think?"

"I should think so. I will show thee where to go, if thou wish'st, now."

Now? I'm suddenly ready to collapse in terror. Leave the house? Walk the streets again? All I can seem to remember about the world outside is a haze of pain and immobilizing panic. None of the joy my reason is telling me it once held. I do not want to go.

But I have to.

I take a breath to steady myself. "Come, wait in the hall. I'm going to talk to them." What I'll say I have no idea, but I must. "It will not be long." I walk ahead of him out of the room, and push open the kitchen door, where Ignazio is scrubbing a pot and Shylock is glaring at the wall.

"He told me 'tis safe," I say after a moment. "I was never charged under the law."

Ignazio peers over the rim of the pot. "You are leaving, then, are you not?" He waits for no reply. "'Tis a pity. Master Shylock will miss you."

"Be quiet or I'll drown thee in the canal," Shylock orders without looking at him. Nor at me.

The threat has as much effect on Ignazio as usual, which is to say, none at all. "I hope your friend is sorry for not helping you before. Do not forget to eat, or we'll drag you back here. Of course, Master Shylock's cooking has probably spoiled you, but no help for that."

"The canal is very deep," Shylock informs him, eyes still trained on some invisible crack in the wall. "And I know many places I could hide thy body. So shut thy mouth."

I look at Ignazio. "My thanks. For the help thou hast given."

"Thank _me_ not." Ignazio points at Shylock. "Thank _him."_

What, by all the saints, am I supposed to say? I have no idea, but I must speak. Shylock deserves more than to have me walk out without a word.

"You have given me more than I can ever repay," I mutter eventually.

"I never asked for your payment," Shylock hisses through gritted teeth. "Go live among the Christians. See if they are better than we sinners."

"I doubt you'll take this as a compliment, but you are a better Christian than most. You might curse priests and celebrate heathen rituals but you saved my life even though you hate me." I pause. "If anyone tries to hurt _you_ —more than they already have, that is—I'll help you, if I can. You have only to ask." Before he can snarl at me again, I turn and walk out of the kitchen.

Bassanio is by the door. Instead of waiting until I'm ready, for I know I never will be, I push it open and walk outside.

Light. Streets. People. It all frightens the breath half out of me and I claw for the house wall. Just the sun, I tell myself. Just a street. Just men and women going about their business. No one will hurt you, not here, not now, they have no reason for it. I do not believe any of this, but I cannot hide forever.

"Art thou well?" Bassanio asks cautiously.

"Not exactly, but I will be." I must be. "Show me the way."

**OoOoO**

I'm staring at the wall again.

'Tis amusing, in a hellish sort of way. I spent two months in Shylock's house wishing I could leave. Wishing I did not have to sit up there in that room with the quiet gnawing at my ears. Wishing that when I did venture out, Ignazio would take his babble elsewhere. Wishing I could get away from Shylock and his sarcasm and his impiety.

Now I have left, and there is no more danger, and nothing to keep me from doing what I please. But I'm doing very little, and I cannot but recall my own words from that day on the Rialto, when Bassanio came to tell me of Portia.

_In sooth, I know not why I am so sad. It wearies me; you say it wearies you, but how I caught it, found it, or came by it, what stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born, I am to learn._

Lorenzo and Jessica were glad to have me to stay, and everyone is kind, and obliging, and instead of being properly grateful to them, I find myself wondering if they care. Because they do not kick their way into my room, or constantly try to prove me wrong, or insult me...Why do I feel so drained when I do not have Shylock to argue with?

"Signor Antonio? Are you alright?" I look around to see Jessica standing in the doorway, brow wrinkled. "You have been there so long. Is there anything I can do to help?"

I'm about to make some excuse about being tired when I realize I _do_ wish to speak to her, though not about my own condition. "You might sit with me awhile."

Jessica pulls up a chair next to me. "I'm glad to. I would help you, but I must confess I know not how."

"I appreciate it, but do not worry for me." There is probably need to be worried, but I can think of no remedy she could give. "I'm pleased you seem to be so happy."

She beams. "Lorenzo is the best husband a woman could wish for."

"I expected no less of him." A thought occurs to me. "Do his friends treat you well?"

"Of course." But she looks away.

"As much as it would grieve me to know if they did not, it would not surprise me. And if that is so, perhaps you should speak to Lorenzo of it."

Jessica shakes her head. "'Tis nothing like that. They mean no harm. But some have developed a joke where they ask Lorenzo why he does not serve pork at table. He laughs them off, but it humiliates me, for the truth is, I am not sure how well I could stomach it."

"That seems thoughtless to me, that they should talk so."

"Perhaps it is. But not all are like that. And I am growing to be friends with some of their wives." She smiles. "When they learned I had no mother, they were quick to be kind. Mayhap you know not—my mother died when I was young."

"I did know. In fact, I was wondering..." I trail off.

"What were you wondering?"

Where do I begin? I have told no one of what happened in that house, no one but Bassanio even knows where I was. Few know why I left Belmont, I doubt Lorenzo does, and Jessica certainly does not. And mostly I prefer it that way, but I cannot ask her my question without explanation. "I stayed with your father when I came back to Venice."

"What?" She laughs nervously. "I thought you said you stayed with my father."

"I did." I half-smile. "It sounds insane, I know."

"When you came, you—you looked sick. My father did not—"

"No, he did nothing to me," I hasten to say. "In truth, he gave me aid. I was in danger and he—I don't pretend to understand it. Especially since we barely left off insulting each other, and our choice of friends, and our religions, and who let the water boil over..." I shake my head.

"He helped you?"

"I would be dead if not for him," I say honestly. "More than once."

I see hope amidst the confusion on her face. "He's repented, then? Of his sins? I find it difficult to face Lorenzo's friends at times, you see. They still look at me and see a Jew's daughter. But if my father was truly sorry, I would not care what they thought of him."

"I know not his thoughts. Only his actions." I pause. "I suppose I wished to know him better, by asking you. We rarely spoke of ourselves, but I confess myself curious about his family. About your life, before you left."

Jessica frowns. "There is little to tell. A husband without a wife, a girl without a mother, neither knowing how to get along without her? Many a man or woman could tell you that story."

"But I do not know his, or yours. If speaking of your childhood causes you pain, of course you must not. I should like to hear, though."

"I suppose..." She tilts her head to one side. "In truth, I hardly remember my mother. My father's friends say he cared for her, deeply, but I find it hard to imagine him feeling for anyone what Lorenzo and I feel for each other. He seemed to think showing love made you weak." Jessica stops a moment, then goes on. "Perhaps that was why I left. Not just because he showed me no affection, but because I had no one to show affection to. Anything I did, he was suspicious of, as if he believed people only did things for what they could personally gain."

"He said he loved you, and your mother." I do not mean to say this, but it falls out of my mouth regardless. "I only wish he had said it to you."

"Why would he tell you such a thing?"

"I asked. Rudely, as it happens. I was trying to provoke him. Later, he told me she died of a tumor."

Jessica nodded. "That is what they say. I, too, wish he would tell me that he loved me. Mayhap then I would not..."

"Would not what?" I prompt when she does not go on.

"I love Lorenzo, and I know he cares for me as well. I do know that, but every time I begin to feel comfortable, I ask myself how anyone could truly love me, if my own father could not."

Unsurprisingly, as it is a frequent state, I find myself angry at Shylock. "You must not think that. If he failed to show you kindness, that was his fault. You are not to blame."

"'Tis good of you to say so." Jessica exhales. "But I tell myself that over and over again, and it does not help. When I was a girl, I used to wish I would stop growing, for it seemed that the older I got, the more spiteful my father became. Though I know now it was not me he resented. We lived outside the ghetto, you know, and I think that made it easier for the debtors to hurt him."

"Were you ever afraid for yourself? That the debtors would hurt you?" I stop. "I am sorry. I should not have asked."

For a moment, Jessica's face twists in pain. "I...I remember the exact day I decided I would marry Lorenzo. He brought me token after token and swore vow after vow, swore to protect me as my father never had. I grew angry with him over that, and said my father could shield me just as well. So I went to him and asked what would happen if a man were to beat me. I wanted him to say he would come and rescue me, but..." She trails off.

"But what?"

"He said if only one man came to beat me, I should run and scream, and he told me the places to hit or kick him if he grabbed me. But he said if there were many, I should just do as they told me. Give them my money or whatever they wanted and pray they would not hit me. If they knocked me down, he said, I should curl up and cover my head and never cry out and give them the satisfaction." She closes her eyes briefly. "Even he did not think he could protect me. The next day I told Lorenzo I would marry him."

My first reaction is fury at Shylock for frightening his daughter so. He should have—then I hesitate, for I realize I do not know what Shylock should have done. Locked his daughter in the house and hid the key? She would go mad with loneliness, and even then thieves might break in. Never let her out of his sight? That was hardly feasible, when he had a profession to practice. Frightened away all men who might hurt her? Unless they owed him money, they would never fear him. Revenge any pain she might have, to show others they should leave her alone? He would end up in prison and she would be on the streets.

Jessica tilts her head to one side. "I suppose he might have considered it love to keep the windows shut as he did, and rarely let me out, that I might not experience what he did. But it just made me more eager to get away."

"You said, earlier, that he became _more_ spiteful," I say cautiously. "Was he not always so?"

"He always scared me when he was angry, which he often was, but—when I was a young girl, we would play. I would hide, and he would seek me out, and we would feed the pigeons." She smiles briefly. "He would even help me up and soothe me when I fell and cried. Of course, later I would never cry in front of him."

"He's odd, now," I say slowly. "I was sick, for much of the time I stayed with him. He insulted me so often and so much that I hardly noticed, at first, that he was giving me help. 'Tis as if he can only care for someone if he does not call it that."

Jessica stares at me. "You think he cared for you, then?"

I start, realizing that my own words had seemed to imply as much. "No, of course not. I know not why he did as he did, but I am sure it was not from any attachment to me."

"Has he—has he learned to be Christian?"

"Well, he attends church every Sunday. And sometimes stays to talk to the priest who instructs him."

"Then I suppose...I thought for awhile I could not afford to even speak to him, for it would shame me. Now I wonder...I know not why I even think on him. He would not see me."

I question that, in my mind. But I say nothing. The last thing I want is to cause Jessica more pain, if what Shylock said to me was untrue, or if he has changed his mind.

Jessica rises. "I must see to dinner. If there is aught I can do, I hope you will let me know." She stops a moment, then goes on. "I thank you for telling me of my father. I know not what to think of it, but I thank you." She leaves the room.

What am _I_ to think? I believed once that I was a pious man. At the very least, I repented of and confessed my sins, and did my best to help those in need. Those are the greatest good deeds, I thought, the most important ones. But it is growing to seem that the small vices do more harm than the greatest virtues do good. Before, I would have given little thought to a joke about pork in the house of a former Jew. I would have doubted that a foot meant to trip a moneylender was important. I would have been sure that a simple religious conversion could solve everything. And if there was aught wrong with those opinions, well, I had virtues enough to make up for them.

Shylock's sins are great. He committed usury, once thought to cut out a Christian's heart, and ranted more about the jewels his daughter stole than about Jessica herself. But I cannot forget what is small, either. The money he gave Ignazio for his wedding. The laughter he shared with his friend Tubal. Holding Rosalba's baby, however crossly. Opening his door to me.

I understand none of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have absolutely nothing against Antonio/Bassanio as a pairing, and often read it myself. The fact that Usurer's Mercy, and subsequently Friday Night Candles, put a rather unhealthy spin on their relationship does not change this. But said unhealthy spin means there will not be that variety of slash in this. (Folks shouldn't have trouble finding any if they so wish, it's all over the fandom, though the fandom is admittedly rather small).


	3. Food and Prayer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In addition to some point-of-view changing, there is also a time-jump in this chapter. I've tried to make all this as clear as possible.
> 
> I am no expert on Renaissance Italian names or naming customs, but if anyone wants to know my rationale for the non-canon characters, they can PM me.
> 
> The Merchant of Venice quotes in this chapter are from Act I, Scene III, and Act III, Scene III, respectively.
> 
> Beta'd by Anbessette. Many thanks!

**Shylock**

Fortune is a double-crossing whore. I spent years walking the Rialto resenting the badge I was forced to wear to identify me as a Jew. Now here I am, walking through the ghetto to dine at Tubal's house, passing those of my former faith, and I'm shamed by its absence. That seems to brand me, to proclaim to the city that I gave in to the Christians, that I cared more for my own life than for my God. 

I know not if people are truly staring at me or if 'tis my imagination. It could easily be the latter. 'Tis not out of the question for Jews and Christians to dine together, for people of either religion can sometimes be persuaded to choke down the other's food when business calls for it. But I never shared meals with those I lent money to—I did wish to keep kosher, but just as much I needed to feel there was something they could not make me do.

_"I will buy with you, sell with you, talk with you, walk with you, and so following, but I will not eat with you, drink with you, nor pray with you."_

So much I said to Bassanio, that day we agreed to the bond. But now I have taken food and drink with Ignazio and Antonio and Rosalba, Christians all, and I must at least pretend to pray in church. I hate myself and the world in equal measure, for making a liar of me. And I can never again feel entirely comfortable at a Jewish table.

I knock on Tubal's door, and in a minute or two Naomi opens it. "Come in, Shylock. I'm so glad you are here."

"It was good of you to ask me. If you had not, I might very well have forgotten that polite behavior existed."

"Do you lack courteous company so very much?"

"My company these days consists of a servant who has nothing worthy to say and says it anyway, his wife who constantly stares at the floor, a fretting baby, and a priest who keeps trying to save my soul. You and Tubal are my only hope."

Naomi laughs, leading me to the room where the food is laid out. "Well, we are glad to be of help."

I know Tubal's children by sight, from before we drifted apart. His eldest was married not long ago, but the next two are here. They are regarding me warily, which shows good sense on their part. Naomi goes to arrange the wine cups. "David, Rachele, greet Signor Shylock."

There are a good few moments of silence before the girl—Rachele—speaks. "You are welcome here, Signor. I hope you—I mean, we do not have..." She trails off. The boy, David, opens his mouth and then closes it.

"I do not know what is taking Tubal so long." Naomi's brow furrows. "When I left the study, he promised he would come down shortly. If you consent, I will go see if there is trouble." She vanishes, and I am left alone with two children, who have most likely heard all the true rumors about my bloodlust and a great many false ones besides.

Rachele glances at her brother, who folds his arms. "This is foolish."

"Thou _said_ thou would'st ask." She raises her eyebrows. "Art thou afeard?"

"No one scares me," he retorts. I frown in confusion.

"Well, art thou going to prove it, or not?"

"Fine!" David glares, then turns to me. "Did Father really throw perfumed eggs at Signora Calvo once?"

I stare at him, the question completely unexpected. "What?"

"See?" David elbows Rachele. "'Tis just a tale. Father's too dignified to do anything like that. Thou owe'st me thy slice of sugar cake, the next time Mother makes it. A wager's a wager."

"I hope thou drop'st it in a puddle," Rachele grumbles.

Despite the surprise, a half-smile tugs at my mouth. "If thou hadst a wager on it, it is thee who must forfeit, David. Thy father threw several perfumed eggs at Signora Calvo, before he knew thy mother. I fear he ruined one of her best skirts, and she never forgave him for it."

Rachele grins. "I _do_ love sugar cake."

"Why did I ever agree to this?" David groans.

"Oh, do not sulk," Rachele orders him. "Think about it. Father might understand now if thou throw'st eggs at Signora Calvo's daughter."

David turns bright red. "I—I just said she was pretty! Everyone knows that, 'tis not just me. Her eyes are brown and her hair is green—I mean her eyes are green and her hair is..." He looks helpless as Rachele starts to laugh. Though I sympathize with him a bit, I almost cannot help but join her.

The door opens again, and Tubal comes through with Naomi. "I am sorry to have kept you waiting. 'Tis only—" He glances between the three of us. "Have I missed something?"

His son covers his face in embarrassment as his daughter clutches a hand to her mouth to smother the giggles. I cover up my own near-laugh with a great deal of fake coughing, which arouses an offer of water from Naomi.

An outsider would no doubt say our meal passes pleasantly enough. But I find it marred, not so much with discomfort at our religious difference as with jealousy. Though I would be loathe to admit it, I desperately wish I could have had such a family. And I'm not such a fool as to entirely blame my lack of it on Leah's death, though that was no help.

The people sitting at this table are not afraid to show love for each other, through word or deed, and thence, I think, lies the difference. I may be capable of love, but the idea of expressing it seems as foreign as the lands to the East, and as far away as the moon.

**Antonio**

The door is locked. I checked it three times. I _know_ 'tis locked. But I have to put a chair in front of it before I can relax. A ritual that is becoming increasingly familiar.

Being back in my old house has done me little good so far. I avoid my bedroom like the plague. In truth, I sleep on the floor with a blanket, as I did in Shylock's house. It feels safer, which is ridiculous. And I'm not eating much.

I think of Bassanio far more than is probably good for me. I wonder if he and Portia have reconciled. They will at least pretend to, I am sure, to the outside world. And she might forgive him, if she can only see how much he adores her. Anyone who thinks 'tis impossible to love two people at once has never met Bassanio. I know it frightened him to think of letting either of us go, and I did not mind being occasionally put aside for Portia. But Portia has her own mind and will, and I doubt she would consent to be abandoned, even temporarily, so that her husband would not have to decide between us.

At the moment, instead of staring at the wall, I am staring at the accounting ledgers stacked in my study. Those who carried my merchandise to Venice have long ago found other work, and those who bought from me have long ago found others to supply them. I have enough money to live on for awhile, but I must begin rebuilding my finances. Frankly, having that task is a relief. If it were not necessary, I fear I would do nothing at all.

I hear strange footsteps nearing my door and try to keep myself calm. I wrote a few days ago to an old friend of mine, whose knowledge of the market I trust. No doubt that is he, come here today to inform me of what has happened in the two months I was gone. Which means I must pull myself together and play the host—and start by getting that chair out from in front of the door.

My hands are shaking, but I brace myself and open the door at the knock. 'Tis my friend, as I expected, but to my surprise, he's not alone. Two others are with him, a man I vaguely recognize but whose name I know not, and another who must be his son, so alike do they look.

I order myself not to show fear at the sight of strangers, and smile at my friend instead. "Vicenzo, I'm grateful you have come. It has been too long." I stand aside to let them in.

"I'm just relieved you are recovering." Vicenzo looks at me, clearly concerned. "When a man is sick for so long, most despair of him, and you still do not appear entirely well."

"The sickness has left me weaker, but it itself is gone," I reassure him. I'll just have to get used to half-truths when it comes to my condition. "Will you make your friends known to me?"

"Of course." He indicates the older, slightly familiar man. "This is Signor Marino, and this, his son, Signor Facio."

"We do not mean to intrude," Marino says, "but when Vicenzo mentioned he was to meet with you, I asked to come along. He and I..." He stops and glances at Vicenzo. "But he will speak of it, no doubt."

"And you will be glad when he does," Facio says cheerfully.

Soon the four of us are seated with cups of wine, and I look at Vicenzo. "Now, you must tell me what has happened on the Rialto, and how I may continue my business. There is no need to hold your tongue in the presence of your friends. Speak the truth of it, even if my prospects are poor."

Vicenzo sighs. "I wish I had better news for you, my friend. But though the market is good, I fear you will have difficulty. 'Tis not only your sickness, 'tis that you told no one when you departed to recover. Some lost money when they did not get what you had promised, and they were less than pleased."

I tap my fingers on the side of my cup. Wine is not nearly as pleasant to me on an empty stomach. "My reputation was already called into question when I lost so many ships eight months ago." At the time I had been so worried about having my heart cut out that I had not given much thought to my good repute.

Marino nods. "But if I recall correctly, you received news not long after that some of your ventures had paid off?"

"Yes, but I fear that both these failures, so close together, will go hard with me." Now is not the time to be thinking of how hungry I am, especially since I am fairly sure that if I had food before me, I could not eat it.

"No need to be saddened, for you will soon see improvement." Facio beams. "My father and Signor Vicenzo have an idea that cannot fail."

Marino gives his son a fond-but-exasperated look. "To which he is not obliged to agree."

"Now you have made me curious." I smile at Vicenzo. "Is this another of your experiments? They have paid off well enough in the past."

Vicenzo sits forward. "Some of those who buy from me have recently become interested in Venetian glass. I should not like to lose their business to other merchants, but I am not so well acquainted with that market. I recalled that you had traded there often, but of course I knew not how to find you."

"You wish for advice? That I am glad to give."

"I wished to partner with you, as it happens. The problems encountered before were none of your fault—in fact, your sense in such matters has always been sound." Vicenzo glances at his companions.

Marino opens his mouth, but Facio jumps in. "You must agree! There is nothing like this plan, nothing."

His father clears his throat pointedly. "I had a mind to finance this venture, provided Vicenzo found a partner who knew something of the business. What think you of it?"

The idea excites me immediately—I have as much pride as any Venetian in the glass we create here—but I will not gain by being hasty. "I'm glad to offer any assistance, but I must consider carefully whether to partner with you or not."

"I think the better of you for it," Marino replies.

"'Tis an excellent venture," Facio says confidently. "It shall turn a great profit. You will agree to it, I'm sure."

We speak at some length before Marino and his son bid us farewell, using the evening meal as their excuse. When they are gone, I turn to Vicenzo. "I do not know Signor Marino as well as you. What conditions is he likely to lay down, if he finances this?"

"Only reasonable ones," Vicenzo reassures me. "But I would advise you—do not mention the bond you had with the Jew."

"I am hardly likely to. Risking my life for a loan was foolish, no matter how sure I was I could pay."

"No, that is not the reason. I heard him once compare moneylenders to diseased and dying rats, and say those who deal with them are little better. You did not make a habit of consorting with Jews of any kind, so I would not worry overmuch. But bringing it to his attention before he grows to know you well would be a poor idea."

"Then I shall keep silent over it." I take another sip of wine and try not to make a face. "I did not like to ask while he was here, but—why did Signor Facio come along?"

Vicenzo laughs and shakes his head. "Marino is tutoring him in how to conduct business. He means to give him money of his own, so he may try his hand at something small before he is trusted with matters of more import. From what I can tell, the only lesson the lad has learned so far is to praise his own ventures beyond what they can possibly deliver."

I chuckle. "I was like that once. Any trade excursion I dealt in was sure to pay off, no matter if those wiser than me had tried the same strategies many times to no avail. But with luck, he can weather any losses with that cheerful disposition."

"I only hope you are right." Vicenzo suddenly frowns. "I know Facio well, and though he's kind, he does not react well to disappointment. He has lost friends, I fear, over naught but a game of dice, for he will strike them if he loses too much money."

"All young men have their faults. No doubt he will learn." Now I'm truly hungry. Now is not the time to be thinking of Shylock's cooking. Actually, there is never a good time to be thinking of Shylock's cooking. "How does your wife do? And your children?"

"Very well." Vicenzo positively grins. "My eldest son has begun to swoon over the girls he sees at church. Every week brings a new heartache, depending on whether his current love has favored him with a glance. In my opinion, he is too young to be thinking of such things, but my wife says I was probably little better at his age."

I think, briefly, that Vicenzo's son is lucky. That age brought only confusion and panic for me, when I realized my desire lay with men, not women, and the sin that was. "You must commend me to your family, all of them."

"I will indeed. Shall I call on you soon, to hear your mind on this venture?"

"Please do."

The moment Vicenzo is out the door, I shove the chair back against it, and consider eating something. Instead I fetch my Bible and try to pray.

It does not work, though, and I should have anticipated that. I have perused the Bible frequently these days, searching for the comfort it once gave me. But the more I read, the more it seems the scribes who recorded the word of God cannot decide if He intends to punish us or forgive us. One verse insists that we should demand an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, another proclaims we should love our enemies and pray for those who persecute us.

If it were not the Holy Word, but an ordinary book, I should be inclined to believe the author's mind was as addled as Ignazio's. Verily, I should even wonder if that was fair to Ignazio. However, it _is_ the Holy Word, and I am not sure how I should go about obeying it. As such, I gain only confusion, when what I hoped for was guidance. Rest.

Shabbat.

No. I'm not going to think about that. I should not be looking to a Jewish ritual to bring me peace, especially when celebrated by a man who's supposed to be Christian. Whom I forced to convert to Christianity, and flattered myself by imagining I had saved his soul. Unfortunately, it seems fairly obvious now that I did it out of spite.

I know not why merely lighting candles, hearing Shylock speak words I do not understand, and eating bread—challah—made me feel safe again for a few short minutes. If we were to do it again, perhaps I might be able to solve that puzzle. But we never will. The best I can hope for is to pass Shylock in the street.

And why does that not seem like enough anymore?

 

** Three Months Later **

**Shylock**  

"A tavern brawl."

Ignazio winces as Rosalba washes the blood off his face. "Yes, Master Shylock. But a very small one."

I take stock of his injuries—split lip, black eye, lump the size of an egg on his forehead, and a nose that appears to be broken. "Pray thee, how many people were involved in this 'small' tavern brawl?"

"Well, there were the three men I was drinking with, and then one of them had two friends, and then the man whose ale I spilled by accident, and then the tavern-keeper's wife who threw me out into the street. There were a few others, but they do not matter because they did not actually hit me."

"Thou art calling that small? Was thy mother a fool, that she did not teach thee to count past three?"

Rosalba's face is twisted with worry. "Thou could'st have been badly hurt, Ignazio. Why didst thou not leave when it began?"

"I, well..." Ignazio stares at the floor. "I began it."

 _"Thou_ began it?" I stare. "What insult would make _thee_ take offense?" The only response my own jibes seem to get from the man is a wider smile.

Ignazio tries to wave a hand casually, but 'tis made rather harder by his split knuckles. "It matters not." He glances at Rosalba, who is wringing out the cloth she was using and does not see. "But a trifle."

I'm about to demand a complete explanation when there is a knock at the door. "Shall I answer that?" Rosalba asks.

"Continue to tend thy husband. I shall see who 'tis." I leave the kitchen, go to the door, and open it.

An unknown man stands there, distress plain on his face. "Are you Signor Shylock?"

"I am. What would you have with me?"

"I have a message from my master, Signor Tubal. He and his wife entreat you to come to his house the moment you can. They are in need of help. I know not what has frightened them so, but—"

"Fear not, I will come." Turning, I walk back to the kitchen. "I must go out. If anyone else comes for me, send them away." I do not wait to see my servants' response before I stride from the house, the messenger following in my wake.

Though I question the messenger repeatedly, he has no further information, leaving my imagination to run wild. What would scare Tubal and Naomi that they would attempt to conceal from their servants? Some scandal? They are hardly the sort to become involved in anything illegal. And though 'tis true we are more friendly now, why would they trust me? I have never been known to bring health and joy to anyone's doorstep.

Finally we arrive, and the messenger shows me in. I grow even more alarmed when I see them. Tubal is pacing, his jaw clenched, and Naomi has tears dripping down her face. "What has happened?" I demand.

Tubal stops, gripping the table. "Shylock, I helped you search for your daughter once. Help me search for mine."

"Rachele? She has run off to be married to a Christian?" The girl can hardly be more than twelve.

"I only wish she had!" Naomi wipes her eyes.

"Then what is it?"

"A man came to me two months ago for a loan." Tubal is obviously trying to stay calm, but he's doing a poor job of it. "He was to pay me ten days ago, our bond says it clearly. Though he is young, his father has money to spare, so I did not suspect any trouble."

"And certainly nothing like this," Naomi says. "We have dealt with reluctant debtors before, but..."

"When he put me off over the debt, I made inquiry," Tubal continues. "His father cannot stand Jews, much less moneylenders, and is unlikely to provide anything. When I found it out, I told the young man I would take him before a court if he did not pay me soon."

"And now you wish for my help finding your—" I stop, horrified. "What has he done to your daughter?"

"We know not." Naomi swallows, trying to control herself. "She walked two streets away to visit a friend yesterday and did not come back. This day the debtor sent a man here to threaten us over her."

"I have offered to recant the bond," Tubal says. "But he has not yet replied, and what he may be doing to her now..." He stops, then continues. "I would call up the law on him, but I fear I would not be believed, and that he would hurt her if he knew of it."

My hands curl into fists. This must be a nightmare from hell for them. And yet I feel utterly helpless. "But what can I do? Whoever this man is, I am sure I have no hold over him."

"You are a Christian," Tubal says. "Verily, we have no plan. But whatever little you can do, it is more than we can."

So that is why they called me. If 'tis possible, I feel more trapped than before. Christians with power plague me worse than carrion flies, and the fact that anyone might consider me one never occurred to me. And as a result, I know not how to _think_ like a Christian with power. A little water and the words of a droning priest cannot reverse the way my mind has worked for years.

"This man would laugh at me," I admit. "No matter my faith, I'm not trustworthy. I have made enemies of everyone who might help you—" I halt abruptly, remembering words spoken in my kitchen three months ago.

 _If anyone tries to hurt_ you _—more than they already have, that is—I'll help you, if I can. You have only to ask._

No. I would breathe smoke in hell for a thousand years before I would ask Antonio for anything. Consent to be in his debt? The thought almost makes me sick on the spot.

"I would do anything," Naomi whispers. "No matter how small the chance was. I need her back."

Do I not owe it to them to at least ask? I cannot be sure he'll say no until he says it.

No. I will _not_ go crawling to that man's doorstep, not for anything. The world can go up in flames all around me before I shame myself like that.

Rachele is a girl, an almost-certainly-petrified girl in the hands of a desperate debtor. Does my pride truly matter?

"I might try—I doubt it will work. I do not wish to raise any hopes. But I can think of nothing else."

"Try what?" Tubal asks.

"Do not ask me. I will do nothing to increase Rachele's danger, or yours. But to tell it would ruin my courage, I fear."

"Then I will not ask."

A thought occurs to me. "I must carry your bond. Will you fetch it for me?" I know perfectly well that my word alone will never be enough. Tubal nods and leaves the room.

No sooner has he gone than David bursts in. "Mother, why do you not tell me where Rachele is? Why do you not let me leave the house?"

"Thy sister will be home soon." Naomi is clearly trying to convince herself as much as he. "But thou must stay safe until then."

"If anyone has hurt her, I will kill them, I—"

"Be quiet," his mother orders. "Thou must never speak so. I have no wish to lose thee too."

Tubal comes back with the bond and hands it to me, then lowers his voice so David cannot hear. "If you can bring him to accept money, do not spare it."

"I will do what can be done, I promise." I glance at Naomi's tear-stained face and suddenly cannot stand to be in that room one minute longer. Gripping the bond as if 'tis a key to the city, I let my feet carry me out the door.

I force myself to walk swiftly, out of the ghetto, through the streets, but the farther I go the more ridiculous my chosen strategy seems. There is no reason to believe that Antonio's words were spoken in anything but carelessness. And besides, any claim I make will be suspected as just another extension of my own viciousness.

Guilt hits me hard, then. I do not regret my hatred; much of the world richly deserves it, in my view. But when enacting my revenge, I did exactly what they expected of me. Jews lust after Christian blood, they said. Jews have not a dram of mercy in their cold hearts, they said. Jews are dogs, they said. For Tubal and Naomi, for David and Rachele and so many others, those words are so untrue 'tis laughable. But for me?

If ever a man lusted after Christian blood, I did. If ever a man had a heart hardened to pleas, I did. And as for being a dog—I had said I was one myself, the day I called up the jailer. _"Thou call'dst me dog before thou hadst a cause. But, since I am a dog, beware my fangs."_

I had become what they said I was. Now, Jews who were good people were depending on me to be their advocate. And I fervently wish I had never tried to take revenge, not for my own sake or the sake of my enemies, but for that of an innocent girl and her family. But I cannot change what I have done.

Suddenly Antonio's door is looming in my face. I know if I stop and think about what I'm doing, I'll just run away. So I do not think. I shove all thought aside and knock.

The seconds I wait feel like minutes. I shift from foot to foot as my courage drains away. Then the door creaks open, and a servant stands there. "Greetings, Signor. Are you here to see Master Antonio?" He suddenly frowns. "Pardon me, but you do not look well."

"I'm not," I say shortly. "Is thy master here?"

"He is meeting with his partner about their business." Reestablished himself already. I would be irritated, were I not so busy being afraid. "I fear they cannot be disturbed now, but if you do not mind waiting—"

"No need to wait," a strange voice calls from inside. "Our work is done." A fashionably-dressed man with a bit of grey in his hair appears, holding what look to be contracts, and speaks over his shoulder. "My friend, you have another guest."

"I'm glad to—Shylock? Why are you here?"

Antonio emerges from what appears to be a study. He appears slightly less tired, but the low-level terror has not gone from his eyes, and he's still unnaturally thin. I kick myself for even noticing, much less caring. And he looks as if I have grown two heads. "Are you mad? What are you doing in my house?"

It truly was madness to even try this. "Wasting my time, apparently. Thank you for your _many courtesies."_ I glare at the man with the contracts. "May you have better profit than I from your dealings with him." And with my one plan abruptly crushed, 'tis as if I'm back at the night I found Jessica gone. My head spinning in terror, my mind providing images of every horror a man might visit on a girl he had reason to hate. The voices in the room suddenly seem far away.

Then I find myself sitting in a chair with only the vaguest idea how I got there, and Antonio is gripping my shoulder. "Shylock, talk to me. Are you sick? Hurt? Talk to me, curse you!"

The words tumble out of me almost before I realize it. "I need your help. Send your friend away, I cannot speak of it before him."

"You need my help?" Antonio looks completely stunned. "You despise me."

"'Tis not for my own sake I'm asking. Will you hear me?" Even as I speak, it feels ridiculous. This will not work. But for a legal technicality, I would have acted the butcher and cut this man's chest to pieces in the open court. And he's had months to forget any kindness I might have done him, and to regret any words he might have said about helping me. Then I realize Antonio is speaking.

"I will hear you."


	4. Heart of an Alien

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, folks, here's the plan. We're going to understand that all versions of the Bible are somewhat different. We're going to be aware that, yes, the original Hebrew and Greek and Aramaic texts are not the same as the Latin Vulgate, or modern Torah translations, or the New Revised Standard Version, and none of those versions are the same as each other, either.
> 
> We're going to understand all that, and we're going to ignore it. This is because I can't read Hebrew or Greek or Aramaic or Latin, so, for the sake of my sanity, we're going to say the (English) New Revised Standard version is close enough. Textually, religion is very important to these characters, and this was also a time in history where your faith defined a huge part of your life. So I've made the choice to let it be an important element in the story, and resign myself to the fact that I can't do it perfectly.
> 
> I appreciate your understanding.

I stare at Antonio. Hope flares in me at his words, and I instinctively try and crush it. Listening is easy. 'Tis action that is hard, and I cannot even think what action would solve this horrifying tangle.

"I'll go." The man with the contracts moves away. "Shall I send these to—?"

"Do what you think best, Vicenzo." Antonio does not take his eyes off me. "I trust your judgment. Please leave us." The door shuts, and the servant backs out of the room in his turn. "Not for your own sake? If you are not hurt, then who is?"

I fix my eyes on a point over his shoulder and do my best to tell the story rationally. But the more I speak of it, the more my numbness leaches away and fear replaces it. I know too much of human nature to have any trouble imagining what might be happening even in this moment.

"They called upon me, for I am a Christian. But there is nothing I can do alone. I thought..." My voice trails off, and to cover it, I hold out the bond. "The debt is overdue, any can see it here. You have dealt with the notary yourself, you know his character." 

Antonio, lips pressed together, takes the paper and scans it. Then his eyes narrow and he pins me with a glare. "You dare to come here with such a tale? This man is the son of my business partner. He has even used his own money to assist in our venture. Signor Facio would no more kidnap anyone than I would!"

Just my luck. The son of his business partner? I feel utterly powerless, and with that comes anger. "'Tis no tale. Will you play at dice with a girl's safety to keep your happy little illusions?"

"I would be the greater fool for believing this _illusion_ you and your friend have spun up!" Antonio waves the bond. "Such a slander over a mere debt?"

"Slander?" I jump up and kick the chair aside. "I'm telling you the truth!"

"If Tubal believes he's been wronged, tell him to go to a court and let an unbiased man judge between them."

"Are you a gibbering ape?" I demand. "Tubal knows better! Who can tell what your Signor Facio might do to his daughter, after your supposedly unbiased man dismisses the suit without a thought?"

"You are both cowards, to come to me with such a barefaced lie. Get out of my house or I'll throw you into the street."

"If you claim this is justice you are meting out, you believe more in Satan than God!"

For a moment, I think Antonio is going to hit me. "And you want this to fall on my head, rather than yours? You want me to shame myself so far as to accuse an innocent man?"

"You are a fine one to speak of shame! You humiliated me for years, and now I'm forced to come to you for help. I'm forced to present my case as if you are a high judge and not my tormentor. I'm forced to beg you to believe me. Is that not shame enough for any man?"

He stares at me, shock plain on his face. "You are begging me to believe you? You plead to no one."

"She reminds me of Jessica."

Antonio opens his mouth, then shuts it. Then he turns his back to me, muttering under his breath. I stand there, now bereft of words. I can do no more.

Minutes pass, and I'm almost afraid to breathe. Finally he turns back to me, and his voice is cold. "If I find this is a lie, you may bid farewell to the myth that you have converted, and for that you will lay in prison."

"'Tis no lie."

"Then come with me." Antonio opens the door. "I will have the truth of it."

I follow him towards what I assume is the debtor's house, frightened now not just for Rachele, but for her family and myself. If Antonio believes his partner's son over me, we could all pay dearly for it. Even if I was the kind to follow my new faith to the letter, even if I was the kind to love Christ with all my heart, few would take my word over that of a born Christian's, no matter the blackness of their sins.

Luckily, I have not much time to dwell it, for the man's house is not far away. Antonio pauses outside. "Do not lose your temper. It will do no one good."

'Tis true, though it grates at me to acknowledge he's right. I spent years wearing an implacable mask, hiding my fury at those who taunted me, and 'tis not impossible for me to don it again. Antonio looks surprised, as if he expected me to snap at him, but then turns and knocks.

A man opens the door wide. "Signor Antonio, you are most welcome." He throws me a curious look, but then goes on. "I fear Signor Marino is out, but he should return soon."

"Verily, I have come to see Signor Facio," Antonio replies easily. "Wilt thou tell him I have come? 'Tis private business."

"Of course." The servant stands aside to let us in, and then vanishes into another room.

Antonio turns to me. "Let me speak with him alone. He will not give frank answers in front of you."

What choice do I have but to comply? "I charge you to question him in earnest. If ever I did you any good—" A strange young man, grinning as if he had been given sainthood, appears in the doorway. My stomach drops. A lad never looked less likely to do harm.  

"I am glad to see you, indeed! You have business with me?"

"That I do." Antonio smiles at him. "Is there a place we might speak alone?"

"Yes, through here." The lad beckons Antonio into the room from whence he came, and the door closes behind them.

The servant returns a minute or so later. "Perhaps you might wait—" Another knock sounds. "Excuse me, that must be my master."

Facio's father. This situation just keeps getting better and better. I resist the urge to swear loudly as a middle-aged merchant steps through the and removes his cloak. He gestures the servant away and then spies me. "Good day. Pardon me, but have we met?"

"No. No, we have not." And thank heaven for that. If he had recognized me, it would have been a mercy if the roof fell in. "I came with Antonio." Lying would most likely tangle the situation further.

"I see." The merchant looks pleased. "Well, where is the man?"

"He has private business with your son," I say, a little too quickly. "It will be completed shortly, no doubt."

"No doubt indeed." He looks puzzled, but then shrugs. "I am always glad to meet any friend of Antonio's. I am Signor Marino, and you?"

This is surreal. Now I must pretend to be Antonio's friend. "Signor Shylock. He said you were his partner in business, what is it you deal in?"

Marino laughs. "I do little of the dealing. I hand over the money, and he and Vicenzo spend it—quite wisely, I should add. 'Tis the glass trade we work in. Are you a merchant yourself?"

"Yes." Well, lying was unavoidable at some point. I can hardly say my true profession, even if I practice it no longer.

"What do you trade in, then?"

"Spices." Please, do not let him be an expert in the spice market.

"Ah, yes!" Marino's face lights up. "I often do business there. Might even go so far as to call myself an expert. You must know Signor Rizardo. He and I are good friends."

God hates me, verily. Can I pretend to go into spasms? Fall unconscious? Have a heart attack? "Yes. Of course. Signor Rizardo. Naturally."

"What do you think of the prospects for this argosy he wishes to send to the Indies? I should like to hear an opinion from a neutral party."

I'm trying to remember just what the symptoms of a spasm are, when the door opens and Facio shoots out, pale as a sheet, only to stop dead in his tracks when he sees us. "Father. You—you are home."

"Indeed. Did Antonio speak with thee?"

"I did." Antonio is standing in the doorway now, looking unnaturally calm and composed. "Your son had the loan of an item from Shylock here. We came to collect it." My eyes widen. "And perhaps you and I might take a cup of wine while they speak?"

"Oh." Marino blinks in surprise. "I was not aware my son and Signor Shylock knew each other. Well, Facio, return this item. And I should be glad to drink with you, as always."

Facio glances frantically between his father and me, then turns to Antonio. "I—I have changed my mind. I must keep—it. If any knew—"

"Thou must keep it?" Marino frowns. "That is discourteous, my son, and no way to pay for a man's kindness."

"'Tis true." Antonio's voice is almost pleasant. "I should not like to ask your father to fetch it for us, but I shall."

"No!" Facio is shaking his head. "My honor depends on it!"

I promptly forget about not losing my temper. "Damn thy pox-ridden honor to drown in the sea! I hope thou live'st a thousand years in hell for every minute thou hast frightened that girl!"

"How dare you speak so—" Marino begins, but Antonio jumps in.

"Shylock, stop it. Facio, go get her."

"What is happening here?" Marino demands. "Who is this girl you speak of?"

"His moneylender's daughter!" I explode. "He's keeping her here to avoid paying his debt!"

"'Tis not true." Facio looks ready to panic. I determine not to let him near Rachele if I must pin him to the wall. Frightened people tend to lash out unpredictably. "I would never consort with usurers."

"Of course thou would'st not. I have taught thee better." Marino scowls at me. "Who do you think you are, to curse and slander my son?"

"Do you want to see the bond?" I'm so furious I almost cannot speak. "We can show it to you, we can take you to the notary and the—"

"Be quiet! You are lying!" Facio grabs the bench we were sitting on and swings it at me. I was so worried for Rachele that I had not considered he might try to hit anyone else, and as a consequence, I do not duck fast enough. Blinding pain erupts all down the side of my face.

"Facio!" his father exclaims. "That is _not_ —Antonio, what are you doing?"

Facio jumps back about a foot, drops the bench on his own toes, and actually tries to hide behind his father. I blame him not, Antonio looks like a snake ready to bite. "Keep away from him. Thou confessed to me thou had'st that girl, not ten minutes ago. I would not have told Marino, as thou asked, but thou leave'st me no choice. Go bring her out, now." The lad flees.

"He will hear from me for losing his temper so," Marino pronounces. "Are you alright?"

I'm about to spit a disparaging answer back, but that dies in my throat when Antonio grabs my face and angles it towards the light. "That has to hurt."

"I have had worse," I mutter, shaking him off in an effort to hide my shock. Examining injuries to gauge the pain they cause is the action of a friend. Antonio doing it to me makes no sense.

Marino is pale. "Let me see this bond." Antonio hands it to him without a word. He examines it, and then tears it in half, then quarters. I'm tempted to claw his eyes out, but my face hurts rather too much to try. "I will deal with my son, but no one must know of this...indiscretion of his. I trust you will keep silent on it." He stops at the sound of wailing. "What by all the saints is that?"

Facio emerges, pushing Rachele in front of him. She jerks away and runs to me. "Take me home, Signor Shylock, please—"

"I will." I grip her shoulder, dizzy with relief that she seems uninjured. "We shall go now."

Marino looks appalled. "What possessed thee?"

"I am sorry," Facio whispers. "What was I to do? None could know of the debt..."

"Many a man has defaulted on a loan, but an honest man faces the fair consequences." Antonio glares at him. "He does not terrify a child who knows naught of business. Expect the return of the money thou invested in our venture, and do not think of asking us for profit. I will have no dealings with thee."

"No dealings with..." Facio half-chokes. "The wench was hardly gone a day!"

"Fine." Law or no law, I should strangle the man. "I'll send a stranger to grab _thee_ off the street on thy way to see a friend. I'm sure thou wilt find it merely a pleasing adventure!"

"This is your fault! You told him!" Facio takes three steps towards me and then five steps back when Antonio gets between us. "I mean..."

"Do not even think of hurting him again," Antonio says quietly. "Not now, not ever, or I will see to it that every ship captain, every craftsman, and every merchant on the Rialto knows how little thou art to be trusted. Do not anger me further than thou already hast." Facio's jaw drops. So does mine.

"Leave us," his father orders him. "You will hear of this from me later." Facio slinks from the room like a kicked dog. "I would prefer it, Antonio, if you did not threaten my son. But I must thank you for settling the matter so discreetly. It could have made much trouble."

"I did not do it for your sake," Antonio replies. "If you thank anyone for discretion, it should be the girl's family. And with your thanks might come an apology for defacing their bond."

"You speak as if they were Christians."

 _"You_ speak as if your son was not a dog-hearted coxcomb," I mutter.

Clearly not hearing this, Marino goes on. "And I must insist that you not continue with this insane talk of returning Facio's money. If 'tis thought that even his father's partners will have naught to do with him—"

Antonio shakes his head. "If 'tis thought so, it will be no less than truth. I do not hold this against you, for you are my friend and clearly knew nothing of it, but—"

"You threatened not a minute ago to ruin his livelihood; now you will ruin his good repute?"

"His actions leave me little choice."

"Then you may expect nothing more from me." Marino points to the door. "If Vicenzo cannot bring you to see reason, your venture may thrive or fail on its own. Leave my house."

I steer Rachele out, and Antonio follows me. "I will go with you to her parents, to see her safe."

For some reason, it does not occur to me to protest, and I merely direct us towards the ghetto. Rachele is choking back tears, Antonio says not a word, and my head is spinning so that 'tis all I can do to check we are going the right way.

Marino's actions do not shock me; he is trying to protect his son. Tubal and Naomi called on me because they were trying to protect Rachele. I called on Antonio because I was trying to protect my friends.  

But no one ever protects _me_.It simply does not happen. There might as well be letters written in the sky against it. I can hardly wrap my mind around the mere idea. Except that this time, I did not end up as I generally do when tempers spiral out of control—down on the ground being kicked and cursed and just avoiding being crippled for life. I walked out relatively unhurt, because Antonio—

Protected me. And that goes against every idea I have about myself. No one gives me anything. At best they regard me with casual, generic goodwill. At worst they would laugh if I died. I'm used to that. I expect it, so completely that though I think all the way to Tubal's house, I still cannot figure out what I'm feeling.

Rachele bolts into the house and her mother's arms the moment the door is opened. Tubal tries to usher me inside, but I hardly note what he says, especially when I turn around and realize that Antonio has vanished. I have to look with care in three directions before I spy him five houses down, walking towards the gate to the ghetto.

"Shylock? Have you heard a word I'm saying?"

I jerk around. "Pardon me. I'm just..." I reflect, then decide on frankness. "...horribly confused."

"I wanted to thank you. Nothing we can do for you is too much."

"No need to thank me for mere humanity," I inform him. "I regret to say I cannot bring you the man's corpse, for I fear that would cause more problems than it would...solve..." I trail off as I realize.

Humanity. What I'm feeling is—human. Worthwhile. Important. As if I'm not a cobblestone in the street, to be stepped on at every turn. As if I'm a person.

And I am in no way equipped to deal with the concept of my former nemesis seeing me as worthy of protection. So I let Tubal pull me inside, and insist to him and Naomi that I need no reward, and ignore David's pleas to tell me what happened. And when all that does not distract me, I calculate in my head how many ducats I spend in the market in a year, and imagine five new Bible verses I can quote to annoy Brother Rafaele, and recall every tear in my clothes I need Rosalba to mend.

None of it works.

**_Antonio_ **

"This is a jest. Was not the man lying?"

I pour Vicenzo more wine. Having hardly touched food—again—I declined to take any myself, though I feel strained enough to drink half a barrel. "That's what I thought. Unfortunately, he was not."

Vicenzo breathes out sharply. "Though I wish I could deny it, a reckless action like that does fit with what I know of Facio's character. But Marino could not have known of it."

"I am sure that is true. Marino is honorable enough; I only wish he could understand why we cannot deal with his son."

"No, I must agree with you about that. If he cannot be trusted in such a matter...but when Marino came to my house, to try and bring me around to his view, he said something rather peculiar."

"Peculiar?" I ask warily.

"He informed me that you had threatened his son. That can hardly be true."

"No, I did. In a manner of speaking."

"You did?" Vicenzo stares at me. "Why?"

"He lost his temper and hit Shylock in the face with a bench."

"He hit...is your friend alright?"

The actual question flies right over my head. "Shylock is not my friend. We hate each other. He takes every opportunity to insult me, and I him."

Vicenzo's eyebrows shoot up. "You threatened your business partner's son because he wronged a man you hate?"

"'Tis...odd, I know."

"Well, I will not argue with that." Vicenzo sighs. "But never mind. Now I suppose we must find another investor, or perhaps more than one. The profits we have been earning are well enough, but to expand, we will need help."

We talk for some time, though 'tis mostly speculation as to who might be willing to provide money. Vicenzo bids me farewell, and after he leaves, I try my best to distract myself by reckoning up our gains of the past month. But as with most of my attempted distractions, 'tis not effective.

Why did I do it? The return of Facio's money was mere common sense. If a man will steal away the children of those with which he does business, I refuse to trust him. But why threaten him? There was hardly a need. Marino would have reproached him far enough.

Unfortunately, I do know the answer to that. I wanted to shield Shylock, who shielded me for so long. Not out of any sense of obligation, though I do owe him much, but because I care what happens to him. That's infuriating. It makes no sense. It would make sense if I did it for Bassanio, for Gratiano, for Lorenzo, for any of my friends.

But I should not care what happens to Shylock. _Should I?_ He tried to kill me. _Because I spat on and kicked him._ He was a Jew, and practically still is. _And I take comfort from the rituals he celebrates._ He insults me constantly. _And I enjoy having the opportunity to insult him back._ He cast off his daughter for coin. _And then he saved my life._   He was a usurer, and repents it not. _And I was willing to take out a loan from him when it suited me._

I seize on the last point. Shylock committed usury. He resented it when I relieved his debtors. The Bible forbids it. And I will read the Bible now, to remind me of it, and then these disturbing thoughts will go away.

It takes several minutes of pondering before I vaguely remember the location of the verse, somewhere in Exodus. I skim through the first several sections before I locate it.

But reading the verse does not bring me peace. It brings me the opposite of peace, because of what is written but a few verses before it.

This is absurd. Even the Bible is not acting as it should. I snap the book shut and stand up. I need help. I need advice.

**OoOoO**

I stand around awkwardly after confession, craning my neck so I can see over the crowd. This is not my usual church, and I do not know quite how to go about finding the man I seek. After inquiring of a few people, I discovered that Brother Rafaele is indeed a priest here, but he is not in sight. But then I hear another recognizable voice, and duck behind the tallest person I can see to avoid the owner of it.

Shylock practically stomps towards the door, muttering to himself. A few people are staring, but I cannot tell if 'tis over his decidedly impious behavior or the fact that the right side of his face is nearly twice its normal size. I wince, scold myself for doing so, and then decide 'tis only the sympathy I would feel for anyone with such a bruise.

"Signor Antonio, well met!" I turn and see Brother Rafaele. "I fear you have just missed Signor Shylock, but if you hurry, you may be able to catch up with him."

"We would only trade insults." And why does Brother Rafaele insist on behaving as if Shylock and I actually like each other? "I came to see you. I am in need of advice."

"That I am glad to give. Shall we remain here, or would you prefer to sit somewhere?"

"A place to sit would be welcome, thank you."

Brother Rafaele leads the way. "When Signor Shylock told me you had left, I was glad to hear that you were recovering."

I think of staring at a plate of food for hours and only managing to eat half of it. Of being unable to sleep in a bed, or sleep at all without shoving a chair in front of the door. Of my longing to celebrate Shabbat and my constant search of the Bible for answers that do not come. "I have left, indeed. But in truth, I am not sure I'm recovering."

"You do look tired, and rather thin, if you will pardon my saying so. I did not like to mention it before, but perhaps you might see a physician."

"'Tis not my body that troubles me, I think, but my mind." I walk into the room Brother Rafaele has indicated, and watch as he shuts the door. 'Tis strange to realize that Shylock might have sat here, listening to the priest read, though I doubt he ever asked him for help.

"Well, I know little of that, but if 'tis a matter of faith, I shall be happy to do what I can."

I sit and then stand, sit and then stand, and finally force myself to remain sitting. Brother Rafaele looks at me with concern, so I attempt to explain myself. "I have a question. There is a verse—" I stop.

"Yes?" Brother Rafaele prompts.

"Shylock is the most aggravating person I have ever met!" I blurt out. "He makes me question everything!"

Brother Rafaele looks surprised for a minute, then starts to laugh. "I know it well. The man is exasperating and demands answers I am not sure how to give. But what does that have to do with a Bible verse?"

I throw up my hands. "He's irritating, skeptical, blasphemous, sarcastic—and yet for some cursed reason I seem to care what happens to him." I take a breath. "And I know I should not, so I decided to read the verse on usury."

"If I recall, 'tis in Exodus? 'Tis been some time since I heard it myself. Most take it so much for granted that they do not bother reading it."

"I read it. I read it ten times, trying to stop, trying to see him as the sinner that he is!" I jump up again and being pacing. "I can practically say it by heart: 'If you lend money to my people, to the poor among you, you shall not deal with them as a creditor; you shall not exact interest from them. If you take your neighbor's cloak in pawn, you shall restore it before the sun goes down; for it may be your neighbor's only clothing to use as cover, in what else shall that person sleep?'"

Brother Rafaele looks rather alarmed. "Are you alright? You seem—"

I talk over him. "'Tis exactly as the Church says, that verse. 'Tis a sin to take interest, to drain on what feeble resources the poor have. 'Tis a—"

"Signor Antonio, calm yourself! I know the verse and the laws of the Church. There is no need for such distress."

"Yes, but..." I take a breath and slowly sit down. Between this and the rant about killing myself during the confession he took, I seem rather on my way to convincing the priest I have lost my mind. "'Tis not that verse that is bothering me, though. 'Tis the other."

"Which?"

"Just above it. Just one verse up."

"Will you read it to me? I do not recall the one you mean."

I open my Bible, swallow my worry, and read. "'You shall not wrong or oppress a resident alien, for you were aliens in the land of Egypt.' And there's another, just on the next page. Almost the same. 'You shall not oppress a resident alien; you know the heart of an alien, for you were aliens in the land of Egypt.'"

Brother Rafaele frowns and opens his own Bible. "I fear I have not read that exact verse, for my fathers put no emphasis on it." He flips through the pages until he finds the one he seeks. "Ah, yes. You are right. But I know not why it discomfits you."

"Because it speaks of aliens. The Jews in Venice, they are aliens, are they not?"

"Well, yes, but—"

"It says to welcome aliens! Have we done that? Do we do that?" I get up and begin to pace again. "I stood in that courtroom and watched that lawyer condemn Shylock with naught but a few words, all because he was an alien. He _did_ conspire to murder me, and all knew it. But we condemned him for it before he had a trial of his own, while he had no lawyer to speak for him. No citizen would have been humiliated so, would have been threatened with the gallows before he had a chance at defense."

"Wait a moment!" Brother Rafaele holds up his hands. "That was you? I knew the circumstances of his conversion. I knew he entered into the bond with a man named Antonio, and that he did not think well of you. But I thought it impossible that you could be the same man."

"Well, I was." I drop back down into my chair. "I borrowed money from him, I nearly suffered under his knife, I converted him against his will. All that is true."

Brother Rafaele furrows his brow and taps his fingers on the cover of his Bible. "If you seek an explanation for Signor Shylock's behavior—either harsh or merciful—I must confess I know no more than you. I doubt even _he_ is aware of the reasons for all his actions."

"So he says." I feel the urge to jump up again, but force myself to remain seated. "The verse about usury—we quote that to the moneylenders constantly. We throw it in their faces. Usury _is_ a sin. But we are compelled to obey all the Word of God, not only the parts we like. We cannot pick one verse out of the Bible and ignore those that surround it, can we?"

"Of course not..." Brother Rafaele's frown deepens. "But..."

"Then the Jews have the right to quote the verse about aliens to _us."_ The thought makes me feel ill. "'Tis written right there in our Bible. They could throw that in our faces, but for the fact that they fear us."

"I see," Brother Rafaele says slowly. "I do not like to think of us as oppressing the Jews. But you are correct. They fear us, and I know, from the confessions I take, that much of it is justified."

"I know not what to do," I mutter. "Shylock was wrong to try to kill me, but...I feel as if I have sinned, and yet how would I confess?"

"You have not sinned, Signor Antonio. 'Tis no sin to be confused." Brother Rafaele pauses. "But I do have a question for you."

Curious, I look up. "What is it?"

"You said you read the verse because you should not care about Signor Shylock. Why not?"

"Because he is no believer, he's angry at the world, he cares more for coin than justice! He's a sinner who should burn in—" Guilt hits me, and I shut my mouth. Am I truly this hateful, that I would hurl such accusations?

"Signor Antonio, are not we all sinners?"

"I speak so because I'm afraid," I confess, realizing only as I say it that 'tis true. "I saw Shylock the Jew, naught else. Now I see Shylock the man. I'm afraid, because if he is so, that means I have treated another man as rubbish in the streets."

Brother Rafaele shakes his head. "I am out of my depth. I would suggest you consult one of my fathers, but I fear that, despite their wisdom, they would still be unable to help you. Perhaps God will help _you_ find the answers you seek." He tilts his head to one side, considering me. "But I do have other advice for you, though it has little to do with the Bible or the Church."

"What advice?"

"Eat something. You look half-starved."

I laugh. "I will find that harder than you think."

"How often do you eat, if I may ask?"

"Usually every other day. Sometimes more." I shrug.

Brother Rafaele raises his eyebrows. "Hmm. We may have to take extreme measures."

"What measures?"

"Never mind. I hope my listening, at least, has been some help to you." Brother Rafaele opens the door for me.

"I thank you for it."

Outside, I wander through the crowd, doing my best to push away my runaway thoughts. I'm eager to put off returning to my house, which feels more than ever like a dark trap—a problem I seem unable to fix. 'Tis such a torment there at night that once or twice I have considered finding some man or even woman to lie with me, that I might not be alone.

But in the end, I'm not such a fool as to use coin or my body to get such fleeting comfort. Because as I spend my night hours kept awake by dreams and hunger, and try to imagine what safety and joy might look like, I see no one's face, not even Bassanio's. I see lit candles and that strange bread, challah, and I hear those odd, musical prayers.

_Shabbat..._


	5. Reasons to Live

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by Anbessette. Many thanks!

Ignazio twists his hands together. The man looks nervous as a priest in a whorehouse. "I told you, Master Shylock, it was naught but a hasty word or two. He spoke it after much drinking, and I may have taken more offense than I should."

My servant has been giving me flat-out lies for ten minutes and I am ready to shove burning coals down his throat. "Ignazio, if thou wilt not tell me the truth, we may be forced to part ways. I will have no liars in my house."

"You cannot!" Ignazio looks horrified. This might actually work. "I have served you well—"

"Until thou stumbled home three days ago having started the destruction of half a tavern," I point out. Having dealt with the furious owner after the fiasco with Tubal's creditor, I know this is only somewhat exaggerated. "So do explain just why it was vital to cost me such a purse as I paid to keep thee from a court."

"I will repay you—"

"Thou couldst not for six months."

He halts, half-choking. "Six months?"

"Yes, thou blithering, idle, cross-eyed milksop, it was that bad. They continued their charming brawl after thou escape'st."

"I—I am sorry—"

"Ignazio." I pin him with a glare. "Explain."

"As you say." He stares at the floor. "Please do not tell Rosalba. It would frighten her."

Some of my anger drains away, concern replacing it. "What dost thou mean? Has she reason to be frightened?"

"The man I hit has called Rosalba a whore since I married her, and I have paid him no mind. But that evening he said he needed amusement, that I should loan him my wife for the night. They laughed, all of them, and said they should like to come along and take turns, whether or not she willed it."

"They—" I stop as memory floods me, of a debtor who had snarled the same threat to Leah as she bargained for cloth in the market. Memory of my longing to kick him in the skull or break his neck with my bare hands. And memory of instead gritting my teeth, despite my wife's terrified eyes, because I wore a yellow badge and he wore a cross.

Ignazio looks at me entreatingly. "You must understand. I had to hit him!"

"Thou did'st not have to do anything," I snap. I'm perfectly aware that I'm being unjust, that the old fury is not for him, but I care not. "Thou couldst have controlled thy temper."

"But Master Shylock, you had a wife once! Would you not have done the same for her?"

My stomach roils, but I try to control myself. "Be quiet."

"And you have a daughter. Surely if anyone had threatened her so—"

Jessica. My daughter, who I had always wanted to protect, and never could. Jessica, alone in a Christian's house. Her anxious voice echoes in my mind. _Father, what would you do if a man came to beat me?_ "Ignazio. Shut thy mouth."

"Rosalba is my wife! I love her. You would do the same for anyone you cared for. Even Signor Antonio. If someone came to hurt him—"

Now 'tis Antonio's voice, and his agonized face. _I spend my days up there unable to forget even a second of what that gang did to me._ Rage swamps my thoughts, and distantly I recognize that if Ignazio says one more word, I'm probably going to hit him. "Get out. For thy own sake, get out now." Fortunately, he retains enough sense to flee. I drop into a chair, squeezing my eyes shut.

My custom is to save my curses for others, but at the moment I acknowledge I'm a fool. A mangled, pathetic, slug-witted fool whose brain is rusting away. Jessica, my daughter who ran away, and Antonio, my enemy who converted me. Two people I should hate, two people I have proclaimed in public to wish dead. And yet all Ignazio has to do is say a few words reminding me how they could be hurt, and I want to beat any attacker senseless and bloody.

When did my life stop making sense?

I'm up the stairs and pulling out the Shabbat candlesticks before I realize what's happening and how unreasonable it is. I care not for God. I have no company. I do not even have any challah.

Oddly, I find I care not.

_"Baruch ata Adonai, Eloheinu, melech ha'olam, asher kid'shanu be'mitz'votav v'tzivanu l'had'lik neir shel Shabbat."_

The candles flicker and glow, creating shadows on the walls. The light skims over the silver candlesticks and they gleam. Leah's candlesticks.

I always scorned those who talked to the dead. Best to resign yourself to the fact that they were gone. But had I allowed myself to grieve, I might not have driven the memories so far away. And with them the notion, so often declared by my wife, that I could be loved. And, just as important, that I could love others.

"Leah," I murmur without thinking. "I hope thou canst not see us. Look at me. They turned me into a monster—or perhaps I did that to myself. Now my daughter is gone, the last thing I had of thee. I would have broken thy heart." I pause, realize what I'm doing, and decide to continue anyway. Why not? There's no one here to call me mad.

"If thou canst see us, I hope thou laugh'st at Ignazio, beetle-witted fool though he is. For he loves his wife and daughter, in the way I would have wished to love Jessica and thee, had thou live'st. I wonder if thou watch'st Naomi and her children, whether thou art glad of thy friend's joy or are as jealous of her as I am of Tubal, for the life they share. If thou canst see us, thou know'st if Jessica is safe and happy, and how much I fear for her some days, now that I cannot protect her. Not that I was ever truly able to. Art thou as confused as I that Brother Rafaele does not seem to hate me? What wouldst thou say of..."

No. I'm not going to speak of my former nemesis to some imagined spirit of my dead wife. I look at the cup, which, were I to smash, no one would care or join with me. I think of the prayer, which I have not translated because no one has asked. I look at the table, which has no challah under the cover, because there is no one I am trying to persuade to eat.

"Leah, I should be delighted that he is not still in this house, plaguing me with his insults and his constant fear. I should rejoice over his absence. But I do not. I worry for him, if thou canst believe it." I laugh, and 'tis bitter. "Weakness, in truth. That's all worry is. Though I did not always think so, did I? No, because I admired thy kindness and thy delight, and wished I could be like thee. Thou made'st me human, in truth. What happened to all that?" Though I ask the question, I know the answer.

Grief for a beloved wife hurts. Fear for a daughter's safety hurts. Empathy for a stranger's pain hurts. I did not want to hurt, so I hated instead. Hate became my god. I was Shylock, the monster with the bond and the knife, not just in the eyes of the Christians but in my own eyes as well. And I liked it that way.

"That should be the final word, should it not?" I trace the pattern on the challah cover with a finger. "Close the book, end the story, the players take a bow, and Shylock the monster dies empty, still railing at the world from the hole he crawled into. But no. Fortune is a double-crossing whore and throws my nemesis on my doorstep. He makes me feel and I hate him for it, but at the same time—" I halt, realizing.

"Antonio is not my nemesis, is he, Leah? But nor is he my friend, or a man I picked up off the street. He's what thou and Jessica were. He's family." My mind is whirling, but I know what I say is true. "And thou—thou made'st me human. God help me. He makes me human." I groan and pinch the bridge of my nose. "I should have Ignazio drown me in the canal, for 'tis clear who's the bigger fool of the two of us."

"Master Shylock?"

I whip around to see Rosalba peering into the room. "Curse it, woman, why didst thou not knock?"

Rosalba shrinks back. "I did, twice. Please, I'm sorry—"

"Stop flinching," I say irritably. "Thou hast lived in this house four months, and yet every time I snap at thee, thou look'st ready to faint. Art thou not used to it yet?"

"I mean not to displease you."

"Obviously." I roll my eyes. "Thou hast not an insolent bone in thy body, from what I can see. I would never have suspected it of Ignazio, chatterer that he is."

"Do you think Ignazio will get rid of me?" Rosalba blurts out. "Because I am not like him?"

I stare, almost disturbed by how vulnerable she suddenly sounds. "I meant I never suspected Ignazio could court a woman without tripping over his own feet and knocking her into the gutter by accident. He will not get rid of thee; he is very lucky thou wert mad enough to marry him, and he knows it. Do not be such a fool; thou wouldst not die in any case."

"Perhaps not. But a Moorish woman with a fatherless girl child? 'Tis mere luck Teresa and I are not starving on the street." Rosalba stares at the floor. "Do you wonder that I fear my husband leaving me?"

No wonder she will meet no one's eyes, I realize. The life she has created for herself and her baby must feel incredibly precarious, built as it is on Ignazio's good will and a master's willingness to hire him while she is his wife. Why did I not think of that, when I know well how it feels to be dependent for everything on those more powerful than me?

Rosalba clamps a hand over her mouth. "I'm sorry. I did not mean..." Suddenly she tilts her head to one side, her gaze going off to my right, and comprehension dawns on her face. "Shabbat. You are celebrating Shabbat."

The candles. And the wine and the challah cover. Have I dropped deadly nightshade in my own cooking, that I was mad enough not to stop her at the door? "What wilt thou do?"

She looks bewildered. "What do you mean?"

"Art thou snail-brained? I know Ignazio has told thee my history. Wilt thou tell him of this, and both declare me to the city?"

Rosalba draws herself up indignantly. "And see you imprisoned for it? I think not."

I blink. "Why?"

"Because you do not strike my husband, or bed me against my will, or try to drown my child, or throw us into the street without a ducat," Rosalba says matter-of-factly. "I am not so snail-brained as to believe candles and pretty cloth and nonsensical prayers matter so very much."

"Oh." That was certainly not the response I expected. "Well. Then. Why didst thou come in? 'Tis not time for supper. Am I needed?"

"There is a priest here to see you—the one who married Ignazio and me. Brother Rafaele, is that his name?"

"What by every ship in Venice is he doing here?" The man is a positive menace.

"I know not. Ignazio asked, four times. But he would not say."

Perhaps Brother Rafaele will cut Ignazio's throat and I will not have to. Not that I have ever seen any sign of bloodlust in the priest. 'Tis part of what makes him so very annoying.

Though blowing out the Shabbat candles still seems sacrilegious, I have little choice but to do it anyway, and to follow Rosalba down the stairs. Ignazio is hovering around Brother Rafaele, bobbing up and down. "Did you bring a very large jar of honey for him? Is that why you are come?"

"I fear not," Brother Rafaele replies cheerfully. "Had I such a jar, I would be glad to share it, but sadly, I do not."

"Did you find a Bible verse on feeding songbirds? I pray, read it to him if you have. He would rather feed the pigeons."

"The Sermon on the Mount does speak of Our Lord feeding the birds of the air. But I am sure that includes pigeons as well as songbirds, so Signor Shylock is already doing his duty."

I'm counting how many steps it will take me to get to Ignazio so I can pull off his boots and shove them in his mouth, when he speaks again. "Is this about Signor Antonio?"

"How did'st thou know?"

Just having stepped off the last stair, I stop so suddenly Rosalba walks into me. "Pardon? You are here about Antonio?"

"Indeed I am, though how your servant knew it I am not sure."

"Mostly, I'm three-quarters a clodpole," Ignazio announces. Why does nothing I do ever frighten him properly? "Master Shylock says I always am, but he's wrong. On good days, I drop down to half. Today is one of those."

"To call your servant a clodpole is hardly Christian, Signor Shylock," Brother Rafaele scolds.

Ignazio reflects a moment. "Then every master I have served is a heretic. But leave that. Master Shylock is worried about Signor Antonio, and that makes me worried, because Master Shylock does not usually—"

I find my voice. "Ignazio, hold thy tongue or I shall lock thee in the cellar and force thee to chew on gravel!"

He waves me off. "If you cooked gravel, it would most likely taste better than normal food."

Brother Rafaele speaks before I can get another word out. "Ignazio is right. I'm concerned about Signor Antonio."

"I'm not surprised. He has less sense than a leaking gondola. But why should I care?"

"Well, perhaps because he cares about you."

"What are..." I splutter to a halt. "Where by the Duke's palace did you get that idea?"

"He told me this past Sunday." Brother Rafaele taps his fingers together. "When he came to me over a matter of faith. He seemed—as if he was being dragged one way and then another by his own mind. As if his thoughts were unruly horses he could not keep still."

"It matters not to me," I snap, trying not to show how disconcerted I am by the priest's words.

"I very much doubt that. But to tell truth, I was more alarmed when he told me he ate less than once a day."

I'm about to tell Brother Rafaele he can push his doubts into a muddy hole when his other sentence hits me. "Are you jesting? Less than once a..."

"So he said. Perhaps you can see why I'm—"

"That wayward, ungrateful son and heir to a pox-marked whore! After all the work he put me through, he's going to starve himself to death? Infectious idiot. Well, I will not let him. Ignazio, didst thou build up the fire for cooking?"

"Not yet."

"Good. I do not wish the trouble of dragging the fool back here. I'll just use his kitchen to cook." I grab my coat and turn around to meet three astonished faces. "Stop gaping. Ignazio, Rosalba, fetch Teresa and come with me." My servants blink in unison, then move to do as I say.

Once Rosalba has dashed back with her sleepy-looking daughter and they have both donned their coats, Brother Rafaele follows us out the door. "Should I—"

"No. You would reproach my every insult, and I have no desire for that." I spin around and set off for Antonio's house, Ignazio and Rosalba hurrying behind.

"Why do you need both of us?" Ignazio asks. "Would not one be enough to assist with cooking?"

"Rosalba will help me with cooking," I inform him. "Thou wilt keep Antonio from trying to kill us all."

"Oh. That makes sense."

I spend a good portion of the walk cursing Antonio very loudly for being a dullard. Next I curse his friends for not noticing his extreme dullness. Then I move on to his ancestors in case said dullness is hereditary. After this, I curse the food he has bought for not being attractive enough to make him eat it. I continue the string of foul words until I hear Ignazio giggling, and glare at him.

"Did you just curse Signor Antonio's shoes?"

To be frank, I had run out of other ideas. However, I'm not about to tell him this. "Rosalba, clean out thy husband's ears when we return."

We arrive at Antonio's house just as I finish my thorough damnation of him to the level of hell reserved for those who try and eat worm-filled meat and steal from beggars. I knock at the door, and after a minute or two the servant I saw the other night opens it. "Greetings, Signor. Shall I call Master Antonio to speak with you?"

"'Tis not necessary that he _speak."_ I push past the surprised-looking servant and peer around. "Where is the kitchen?"

"The kitchen? 'Tis just through there. But why—"

"Ignazio, Rosalba, come." I stride through the doorway indicated and stare around with dismay and disgust. A layer of dust and ash, unwashed wine pitchers, what appears to be rancid grease. 'Tis plain no one has given this place a true cleaning in at least a week, probably more. "Art thou bat-brained, to cook in here? Dost thou favor weevils in thy food?"

"Master Antonio dislikes it when we cook in the house," the servant protests. "He gives me coin and tells me to pay the neighbors or go to the market. When I try to clean, he shouts at me to stop."

"Ignazio, look for wood so we can light a fire. Rosalba, find water and fill that bucket." I jerk open the nearest cupboard. Nothing. I yank at the door of the one beside it. Soap and some rags, but no food. The next reveals bread almost too stale for pigeons, a very bruised apple, and what might once have been cheese, but is no longer. "Prating wretch!" I stomp across the kitchen to continue my search.

The situation is not quite as hopeless as it at first appears. There's flour and it appears decent, as well as salt and oil. And—yes, some ginger. I'm on the verge of dragging it all out when I remember the dust and grease.

"I brought the water, Master Shylock." Rosalba has returned, with Teresa now riding in a sling and not one, but two full buckets. "Shall I wash these counters?"

"Yes. Get the soap from that cupboard, and give me a rag as well. Ignazio, where art thou?"

"Here!" 'Tis an irksome mystery how Ignazio manages to still skip while carrying such an enormous armful of wood. "I'll build up the fire. I hope they have some coals still burning at least. Oh, they do! I'm a lucky man."

"Thou say'st that nearly every day. Art thou so often lucky?" I turn in time to catch a brief grin on Rosalba's face as she speaks. 'Tis a startling change. I realize how sad she looks most of the time, and unexpectedly wonder if that is how other people think of me.

"Truly, I believe I am. Just yesterday I did not spill the wine when I tripped, and I saw a new kind of songbird, and I remembered I was married to thee. Is not that proof enough of my good fortune?"

"Ah." I snort and reach for the now-soapy water. "Perhaps this is some new definition of good fortune I knew not before."

"What in the name of the devil is going on here?" Antonio storms into the kitchen, pale with rage. I stare at him incredulously. The man looks like a skeleton, and his hands are visibly trembling. "Shylock, you evil-eyed gudgeon, how dare you barge into my house like this!"

I throw down the rag. "I dare because you are clearly starving yourself to death. When did you last eat?"

"When did I—what does it matter? I'll eat when I choose, and it will not be at your bidding! You make everything worse, you get inside my head even, but I will not be told what to do like some child!"

"Then why do you not act as a man?"

"Go away! I want you out!" Antonio sounds positively hysterical. Instead of amusing me it alarms me, and my stomach twists. "Do not speak to me, do not look at me, do not think of me! Ever! _Just let me die!"_

Let him die? I take a harsh breath, shocked by both the words and the depth of my reaction to them. How has he dropped so far? And why did I not see it? Despite everything, I had somehow assumed his mind would heal as his injuries did, but now I see 'tis the other way around, whatever a physician might say. The illness of his mind is sapping the life out of his body.

"Just—just let me die," Antonio mutters, avoiding my eyes.

"No."

"What?"

"No, I will not let you die," I snap. "And I do not think for a moment you truly want me to. If I believed everything you shouted at me, I would think I was a more hideous monster than Leviathan and you would be a corpse in the street."

"Give me one reason I should live, then!" Antonio yells. Rosalba winces and tries to sooth Teresa, who looks ready to cry from all the noise. "Give me one good reason."

"Do you want to help your attackers, then? Help those plague-ridden filth-eating rats who came to ruin your life? Just let them win?"

"They have already won!" Antonio laughs wildly. "Look at me. They have made me a wreck, or perhaps I even did that to myself. Who would miss me now, were I gone? Who would care a ducat?"

I grab Antonio's shoulders. "I would care, you ditch-born snipe!"

He goes still in my grip, eyes wide and shocked. "You?"

"And Ignazio, and Lorenzo and Jessica, and Brother Rafaele, and your friend I saw that night, whatever his name is." I take a breath. "And yes, me. I cannot and will not act like your Christian friends, but I can see to it that you do not die of starvation." I release him and step back, to see Ignazio and Rosalba staring at me. "Stop gawking." Rosalba immediately looks away, but Ignazio actually has the cheek to beam like a daft drunkard as he goes back to lighting the fire. I turn back to Antonio, who still looks as if a fence post had begun proclaiming scripture. "Call your servant and give him money so he can go buy eggs and butter. Mayhap cheese. Oh, and some parsley or sage. Your kitchen is an utter disgrace."

Luckily, Antonio seems too stunned to argue, and we send the puzzled man, apparently named Pietro, off to a nearby neighbor. By the time this is completed, Rosalba is already prying grease off the worst of the stone—that woman is truly a model servant. I grab two rags and wet them, then shove one into Antonio's hands. "Scrub that counter."

"What?"

"Scrub the counter. You are not going to wander around like a spoiled noble's brat while the rest of us clean your house."

"I'm not spoiled, you pernicious—"

"Prove it, then."

Antonio throws me a furious scowl and falls to work on the nearest counter. I start wiping dust and ash off another, my rag quickly turning almost black. When I'm finally finished, I glance over and sigh. Verily, Antonio's cleaning is so uneven that he's almost no use at all. "Dip your rag in the water. You are merely spreading the dirt around now."

"I'm trying!" There's a desperation in his voice that seems disproportionate to the simple task he's attempting. "Can you not see I'm trying?"

Several insults spring automatically to my tongue. Then I take another look at his shaking hands and twisted face, and bite them all back. "I know you are trying, Antonio," I say instead, quietly. "Dip your rag in the water and wash off the dust. It will be easier that way."

Slowly, Antonio does as I say. I join him by the mostly-still-filthy counter, and in a few minutes we have it clean. Little thanks to him, but I suppose he does well enough for never having scrubbed anything. Not that I tell him so.

When Pietro returns, I set him to cutting ginger, which he does despite clear and understandable misgivings about all of us. Rosalba makes dough while I crack eggs and mix them with cheese and Antonio grinds herbs—one task which, I discovered when he stayed with me, he is truly good at. Ignazio minds the fire and Teresa, as letting him near any cooking process is the act of a lunatic. And he talks enough for all the rest of us combined.

"Guess what happened to me two days ago on the way back from the market! You never will, so I'll tell you. I saw two ladies just outside a door, ladies with these velvet dresses and jeweled necklaces, and one of them was reading from a piece of paper. And what do you think? It was a love letter from a man who was not her husband, whom she had only met twice! And then the other lady took out a letter, and read it, and it was a love letter from the same man! Verily, it was the exact same letter, even, with only the names changed! When I left they were plotting revenge. They planned to make a great fool of him, and I warrant they will."

"I doubt it not," I mutter.

Once the dough is finished, we line a pan with it and add the eggs, cheese, and herbs. Rosalba takes Teresa back and I set the food to cook. A glance about the kitchen reveals little to drink, so I turn to Pietro, who is nearest. "Where dost thou keep the wine in this house?"

"'Tis in the room to the right of this one," Pietro replies. "Shall I fetch it for you?"

"No, thou canst not." Antonio is suddenly on his feet, with what I would swear is fear in his eyes. "Leave it be."

"We will be thirsty, you dolt." I walk out of the kitchen.

"Stop! Shylock, do not go in there!" I ignore him and stride into the room Pietro indicated. Only to stop dead, unable to believe what I'm seeing on the table.

Two silver candlesticks with candles half-melted, a full glass of wine, and a loaf of bread covered with embroidered cloth.

Antonio dashes in after me. "You cannot..." He sees my shock and drops into a chair, covering his face. "I did not want..."

I shut the door with a snap. "Shabbat. You of all men. Celebrating Shabbat."

He nods, defeat in every line of his body.

"But why?" Only silence, and he is trembling again. Still reeling, I pull another chair beside his and sit. "'Tis how Jews worship. And I who showed you this cannot claim to have a true place in any faith."

"It makes me feel safe." Antonio's voice breaks and he raises his head. And I see, to my disbelief, that he is weeping, a sight I never glimpsed in his months at my house. "I am always frightened, always. This house is like a prison, and yet I fear to leave it. Even God seems to have vanished. I'm lonely and I'm doubting and I'm so, so scared..." he trails off.

This is just cruel. Antonio needs friends now, people who can shine light, but instead he has me. Sardonic, vengeful, bitter Shylock, a man who wanted to torture him to death until eight months ago, and is now, if 'tis possible, more confused than he. A man who has not received any comfort or real love in years and therefore has little sense of how to give them. I cannot shine light. But his cheery, affectionate friends are not here, and I am.

_Leah, help me._

"Would you like to learn the prayers?"

He stares. "The Shabbat prayers, you mean?"

"Well, I'm not going to teach you the ones we say to summon the devil and force him to our will. No doubt that is a great disappointment."

He actually laughs at that, infuriating bastard, and manages to wipe a few tears from his cheeks. "If the devil heard you calling, he would run away in terror." He pauses. "Yes. Yes, I want to learn the prayers."

Truly? It crosses my mind that this is possibly the most ironic situation I have ever found myself in. But if it helps... "All right. I'll teach you the prayer we say over the candles. Light them."

Face still wet, Antonio strikes a match and touches the flame to the candle wick. It springs to life as I try to wrap my head around this. I'm going to teach the man who converted me to Christianity to say Jewish prayers. It would be less crazed to try handstands on a rooftop while drunk. Shadows flicker on the walls as the second candle is lit. Antonio blows out the match and covers his eyes, and I follow suit. "Repeat after me. Do the best you can. _Baruch ata Adonai."_

He repeats the words, slowly. _"Baruch ata Adonai..."_

I go on. " _Eloheinu, melech ha'olam."_

 _"Eloheinu, melech ha'olam..."_ His tongue is clumsy with the words, but it stuns me how hard he seems to be trying.

_"Asher kid'shanu be'mitz'votav."_

He stumbles over that one a few times. _"Asher kid—kid'shanu—be'mitz—be'mitz'votav."_

_"V'tzivanu l'had'lik neir..."_

_"V'tzi—v'tzivanu l'had'lik neir..."_

_"Shel Shabbat,"_ I finish.

 _"Shel Shabbat,"_ Antonio echoes.

"You can stop covering your eyes now." I lower my own hands and watch him do the same. "I was merely hoping to fetch wine. One of us should inform the servants that no one's died in here."

Antonio snorts. "Ignazio probably thinks we are gathering flowers for the table."

I go to the door and open it a crack, just as Rosalba comes out of the kitchen. "Master Shylock? Are you—"

"Leave us," I order her. "If the food is cooked before we return, thou may'st begin."

"Oh. Thank you. Is there aught you need?"

"No. Do not let our supper burn. Thy husband can ruin a meal by his mere presence." I shut the door with a snap and return to my chair. "Starving yourself will not help, you know."

Antonio raises an eyebrow. "That's right. I sat down one day and decided to stop eating. It was absolutely a logical train of thought arriving at a flawless conclusion."

"You have been studying the art of sarcasm, I see."

"Well, you were an excellent teacher."

"My thanks," I say dryly. "So why?"

"I know not." Antonio sighs. "Vicenzo, my business partner, asked me the same question. So did Lorenzo. 'Tis humiliating to have no answer, but...I simply know not."

"What? Why have they not helped you, if they knew of this?"

"Not everyone is you, Shylock, by which I mean, not everyone is rude enough to barge into my house and cook in my kitchen when I specifically tell them not to." Antonio looks at the candles. "They tried to help. In their way. Tried to cheer me up. Lorenzo and I drank far too much wine one night, which just made me sick. Vicenzo told me that, as I'm not married, I might visit a whore, and I actually did it. Though not in the way he meant, as you are probably aware."

"You onion-stinking milksop." I glare. "That's dangerous. What if you had been caught?"

"Oh, I did not get nearly to the point of law-breaking." Antonio gives a twisted smile. "I followed him to his room, got through the door, and then turned around and ran out. Which was your fault, by the way. All I could hear was your voice in my ear calling me an idiot. Utterly impossible to manage the deed in that state."

"Why go that far, even? Did you truly think it would help?"

"No. But seeing as the only things that will make me feel better are impossible, why not distract myself?"

I shoot him a mutinous look. "Distract yourself in a manner that has less risk of getting you hanged for sodomy, you mewling numbskull. I worry about you enough as it is."

"Fine." Antonio folds his arms. "Then teach me to make challah."

Either his brain or mine must have snapped. "Challah."

"Yes. There's a kind of bread Jews bake, you see. 'Tis for Shabbat. Have you not heard of it? Because I had the distinct impression—"

"Oh, go fall in the canal and drown." I resolve to ask Brother Rafaele if sewing Antonio's mouth shut is a sin I must bother confessing. "I'll teach you to make challah. Just do not visit any more prostitutes."

What by Venice have I gotten myself into? Any loaf of challah we bake together will probably have either his blood or mine in the dough. But Antonio needs help. Inconceivable as it is, he needs my help. And if I am perfectly honest with myself...

I need his help as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story Ignazio tells about the two ladies who get the same love letter and plot revenge is, as some may recognize, the premise of Merry Wives of Windsor. The two ladies do manage, naturally, to make a great fool out of their erstwhile suitor.


	6. Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll spare you the long and complicated story of why I've neglected this story so egregiously. Suffice to say, I'm back now, and hopefully updates will be more frequent from now on!
> 
> Beta'd by Anbessette. Many thanks.

**_Antonio_  
**

'Tis easier now. A little.

To an outsider, no doubt, my life appears much as it did nearly nine months ago, before all this happened. Eating is still a struggle, but I can manage it. Sea captains and investors once more trust my word on the Rialto. I no longer look at my own reflection and see a skeletal wreck.

But it would be a lie to say all is the same.

"Signor Donato is likely to agree to invest." Vicenzo taps his fingers on the side of his wine cup, looking thoughtful. "However, the others—"

"—are more wary," I complete, examining the papers he has spread across the table in my study. "I suppose we can hardly blame them. Marino...ended our partnership rather suddenly."

"'Tis hardly as if we need all of them," Vicenzo points out. "Still, you are sure you have no friends who might have interest in such a venture?"

I think of Bassanio and Gratiano and Lorenzo, and almost laugh. "No. My dear friends they are, but I would hardly trust them to add three sums of ducats together." As Bassanio had proved time and time again, not that I had minded his expenses.

Vicenzo chuckles. "I know of some like that."

"Besides, I am hardly close to them, now," honesty compels me to confess.

"What of your friend—oh, what was his name? Who came to you on the matter of Facio's debt?"

Having just taken a sip of wine, I promptly spit it back into my cup. "What? Are you talking about Shylock?"

"Yes, that's right. The one who—"

"That's insane! We hate each other!"

"Verily?" Vicenzo frowns. "Then why did you listen to him at all, that night? Why did you care that he seemed so afraid?"

"I..."

"Why did you believe him over the son of your business partner?"

All questions I have stubbornly denied asking myself, along with a good number of others. Questions that just as stubbornly refuse to go away. "I know not," I finally admit.

"Well, perhaps you might think on it," Vicenzo suggests. "Until then, shall we call upon Signor Donato tomorrow, as we planned?"

I agree, and show him out. My habit of putting a chair in front of my locked door has not ceased, causing no end of confusion in my servant. Sometimes I wonder if it ever will cease.

There are certain things that I know never will.

I can never again look at myself and see someone who cannot be hurt. Cruelty, true cruelty, is not some storm that comes and goes, violent while it lasts but with clear skies later. Rather, 'tis a wound that may fester and will never fully heal. I am, and always will be, a changed man. Somehow, I will simply have to learn to live with the memories.

And that is not the only way I am different, either. Now, when I think not on my business or on Bassanio, my thoughts circle back to Shylock with disturbing regularity. There are many days I am furious with him, almost to the point of screaming, but not for being a former Jew, or for trying to kill me once. No, the rage is prompted by a small voice in my own head, saying always the same thing:

_You were wrong._

I have tried with all my soul to keep from knowing this. But like a guilty deed not confessed, it clings to me.

 _You were wrong_ to believe Jews were all sinners, all hard-hearted, all merciless dogs who live for revenge. _You were wrong_ to think yourself so high above them. _You were wrong_ about Shylock—you were sure he was nothing but a monster.

Even to myself, any denial sounds unconvincing. Had I not stood before the courtroom at my trial and said all this? Had I not told my friends to refrain from entreating mercy?

_"I pray you, think you question with the Jew? You may as well go stand upon the beach and bid the main flood bate his usual height...You may as well forbid the mountain pines to wag their high tops and to make no noise when they are fretten with the gusts of heaven. You may as well do anything most hard as seek to soften that—than which what's harder?—His Jewish heart."_

To threaten my life was a monstrous act, but Shylock's actions do not excuse my own. For if I am honest, I believed that Jews were a plague long before my bond fell forfeit, before I had any true evidence of that. And what shames me most of all is the knowledge that, had Shylock offered me mercy that day, I would have made a mockery of it. I would not even have thanked him.

I am stunned by the sheer ignorance of the man I once was.

On top of all this, when I am not incensed at Shylock for turning my life upside down and inside out, I find myself infuriatingly curious about him. Our unceasing train of insults is broken only by his instructions on how to turn flour, yeast, and egg into challah—a task at which I have so far been mostly unsuccessful. The few hints of his past I have gathered do little to help me understand him, and I dare not ask. I dare not risk losing one of the few people I can truly trust, and the only man who knows the whole of my story, just for curiosity.

But I do wish to know more, and even my caution cannot fully overcome that.

Lorenzo, who seems to have been greatly disturbed by my "illness," has taken care to invite me to dine often at his house. 'Tis welcome, for my servant's cooking is little better than mine, and Shylock has an eerie ability to tell when I am lying about having eaten. The food Jessica serves at table is excellent, and in evenings with them, I feel almost normal.

Save when certain topics are raised, of course.

"Why dost thou not go to Belmont, Antonio?" Lorenzo inquires one night, refilling my cup, from which I have barely drunk. "I doubt not thou would'st be welcome. Were I as fortunate as thee, to be so dear a friend to Bassanio, I fear the lady Portia would find me permanently installed in her home."

I truly must find some worthy excuse for why I do not do just that. Lorenzo has so far taken my vague explanations with nods and knowing looks, as if to say he knows I will soon lose my scruples about lying with Bassanio, married or no. Once I was grateful that we did not need to hide our love before our friends; now I fervently wish they had never known anything of it. "My business ventures will not permit it, I fear."

"What is the point of earning coin if one does not enjoy it?" Lorenzo counters. "I told Jessica so the other day. Did I not, sweet?"

"Signor Antonio, if you could see the baubles he brings home for me!" Jessica shakes her head. "They are absurd and I need them not."

"But such beauty as thine must be ornamented!" Lorenzo makes a dramatic gesture like a player in a pantomime.

Jessica laughs, a fond look in her eyes. "Thou would'st try the patience of thy own grandmother, my husband."

"Oh, I have done so, often," Lorenzo assures her. "Then she would chase me with her broom, seeming like the very devil himself. 'Tis how I learned to run so fast."

I smile. "I have seen thee run fast indeed, when thou didst steal the feather from Gratiano's new cap. I doubt he has forgiven thee yet."

"He ran as fast as I, to retrieve it." Lorenzo leans back in his chair. "But Nerissa can run even faster, or so he tells me. He declares he dare not take a mistress, for were she to learn of it, she could certainly catch him and drown him in the canal."

"When we were girls, my friend Deborah and I would sneak outside to race the boys," Jessica says. "Our parents would have been furious, but they never knew."

"Did you ever win?" I ask.

"Not often myself, but Deborah did. She beat every boy she ran against. Some of them said no man would have a girl so headstrong, but most of us knew she was too pretty to stay unmarried." Sadness twists Jessica's face for a moment. "I know not if she has wed yet. She was the daughter of Father's friend Tubal, but they drifted apart, so we girls rarely saw each other once we became women."

"If she is Tubal's eldest daughter, she is married now." Promptly, I curse my wayward tongue. There is no reason Antonio the Christian merchant should know anything about a Jewish moneylender's daughter.

My hosts both stare at me as if onions are growing out of my ears. "How would'st thou know such a thing?" Lorenzo demands.

I resist the urge to swear, consider my options, and decide on the truth. "Shylock told me." Over a burned loaf of challah, but I have no plans to mention that part of it.

Lorenzo's eyes nearly pop out of his head. "Thou hast spoken with Shylock? Without blood being shed? Jessica said her father gave'st thee aid in thy illness, but I was sure she had misunderstood thee."

"No. No, she did not. He and I—well, I owe him a great debt for that and—I do not wish him any evil," I finish lamely.

"Has he forgiven you, then, for converting him?" Jessica asks shyly.

"I know not," I admit. "On some days I think so, on others I am sure there is no chance of it." If I have learned anything these past months, 'tis that humans are far more contradictory than most of us would like to believe. "Why do you ask?"

Jessica looks at her hands. "Because I would be—would be reconciled with him. If he no longer hates you, perhaps he may not always hate me."

"Now, wait a moment," Lorenzo breaks in. "Surely thou hast no need of thy father. Dost thou not remember what those of Venice told us, that when thou and I were married, his anger was for the ducats and jewels he lost, and not for thee?"

"It would be easy for me to hate my father, and not for that alone," Jessica replies. "But he also begot me, raised me, and, I think, loved me as well as he was able. To hate him would be to hate much of myself."

Lorenzo opens his mouth and then shuts it again. I search for the right words. "Would you speak with him, if you could?"

"Yes. But I know not how I would come by such a chance."

"I mean not to raise your hopes. But—perhaps—I might help you."

The words are impulsive, and for a moment I wonder why I said them at all. And then I know, and realize just how thoroughly I have changed.

 

**_Shylock_ **

"Are you swamp-brained?"

"I conscientiously hope not." Brother Rafaele leans back in his chair. "It was merely a suggestion, and one I thought might have some benefit to you."

"Next you'll be _suggesting_ that I swim from here to India!" It takes some effort for me not to throw my Bible at the priest's head. "You want me to give out Christmas gifts?"

"'Tis an honor to Christ and the Magi who brought gifts to him—"

"I care nothing for your Magi!"

"—and it shows goodwill towards our family and friends," Brother Rafaele finishes. "What of them?"

Glaring, I fold my arms. "I have no family and no friends. Would you mock me for that?"

"I do not believe it." Brother Rafaele looks at me steadily. "What I believe is that you do not wish to make yourself vulnerable by admitting you care about anyone. Especially those you think you should hate."

"Should I not hate them?" I demand before I can hold back the words. "What if they deserve it?"

"Signor Shylock, when I listen to all your anger it seems to me as if, to kill your enemies, you are drinking poison yourself. Whether or not they deserve to be hated, do you deserve to suffer by carrying such loathing?"

There is too much truth in what the priest says for me to be at all comfortable with it. "If you do not wish me to suffer, why do you wish me to care? That will only lead to pain."

"Why?"

"Because the people I care for most in the world despise me."

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I want to run headfirst into a wall as punishment. 'Tis a mistake even to admit I care for anyone. And now that I have blurted it out, I cannot deny how deeply I fear this—anyone knowing I care for them and using that knowledge to hurt me.

Brother Rafaele frowns. "Is this about your daughter?"

My jaw drops. In all our months of instruction, I could not have said for sure if the priest even knew I had a daughter. The idea that he might have heard of Jessica's betrayal makes me feel strangely exposed. I am reminded, again, how any Christian would view the matter—a pure-hearted girl escaping from the clutches of her miserly father the Jew, to marry a good and pious man. It makes my stomach curdle, and I clench my fists. "Curse it, she was all I had left and Christians came and took her! They call me greedy, but who were the thieves then? They already have everything, what need had they of Jessica?"

"Signor Shylock—"

Before I know it, I'm on my feet, pacing, nearly shouting. "And of course she went with them. What was her faith, her heritage, her God, in comparison with pretty words of love?" I laugh now, wildly, bitterly. "But it was more, was it not? It was a chance to walk the streets without fear, to never be called a sinner, to have a life outside the ghetto. What could I offer, in comparison with that? Do you know why I hate them, truly? 'Tis because they showed me that Jessica, who was the only person I loved, viewed anything I could give her as utterly worthless in comparison."

"I see." Brother Rafaele looks down at the Bible in his hands. "I am sorry."

"To have another convert, another Jew turned Christian?" I scoff. "You are not sorry. What do you know of it?"

"Little enough, I admit. But I do know a child's ties to a parent are not shed as easily as you seem to think. Have you ever considered that your daughter may not have meant to hurt you? She may merely have fallen in love. People do much in such times, actions both wise and foolish."

"Thoughtlessness causes pain too. And why should she bother thinking of me in any event?"

Brother Rafaele tilts his head to one side. "Do you realize that you are nearly as cruel to yourself as those who hate you?"

"What?"

"In the times we have met, you have called yourself worthless, hateful, angry, spiteful, and beyond redemption. You refuse to believe you are capable of goodness despite evidence to the contrary. Why?"

"Me, capable of goodness? Who will attest to that?"

"Signor Antonio would."

I throw up my hands. "Why do you insist on behaving as if Antonio and I actually like each other?"

To my supreme aggravation, Brother Rafaele's eyes crinkle in amusement. "Perhaps because 'tis true." Before I can formulate a response to this outrageous statement, he continues. "But verily, that has little to do with it. Whether he likes you or not, he does trust you."

"Trust me? That's—" Ridiculous, I'm about to say. Then I realize that 'tis not ridiculous at all. Antonio does not run from my footsteps. He allows me to touch him. He believed me enough to inquire when I went to him for help over Tubal's debtor. He told me about his illicit almost-encounter and makes challah with me every week.

God must be laughing so hard.

Since I know not how to respond, I say the first thing that comes into my head. "I am _not_ giving out Christmas gifts."

"'Tis your choice, of course."

Brother Rafaele's mild reply irks me, as I am in the mood for a lengthy argument and an opportunity to prove him wrong about something. "Does it _honor Christ,_ then, when the rich lords here compete to see who can get and give the most costly gifts?"

"In all honesty, I doubt it."

Surprised by the response, I blink. "You do? Why?"

"Because when Our Lord was born, he was greeted by the poorest and humblest of people. We have not studied those verses, and I suppose I should know better than to think you would look at them on your own." Brother Rafaele flips the pages of his Bible back and forth. "The gospel of St. Luke tells us that the first people to hear of the birth of Christ were shepherds. A host of angels appeared to them and shared the good news."

"And why would your Christ's birth be announced to lowly men first?"

"'Tis for the lowly that Christ was born," Brother Rafaele informs me. "All his life, he preached to the poor and defied the wealthy and powerful."

"Then why do the wealthy and powerful Christians here in Venice ignore the poor?" I raise an eyebrow.

"Because they are but men, and men are often foolish."

"Then what gives them the right to judge me? To scorn me, take my wealth, spit in my face? To force me to become a Christian, when they are hardly Christian themselves?"

Brother Rafaele rubs his temples. "Are you truly asking, or merely trying to drive me mad?"

I consider that. "I am truly asking."

"Well, if one takes the Bible at its word, no man has the right to judge another. The gospel of St. Matthew tells us to judge not, lest we be judged in turn. Only Our Lord is good, and only Our Lord may decree if we are worthy to enter heaven."

I recall Antonio's words, the first night I cooked at his house. _Even God seems to have vanished._ "And what do we do if God is silent?"

After a moment's pause, Brother Rafaele sighs. "I know not."

'Tis a perfect opportunity to gloat over having proved he is not infallible, but for some reason I am not tempted to do so. I am no Christian and never will be, but one priest who admits to not knowing everything inspires more respect in me than a hundred who insist they have all the answers. Not that I would ever say so.

Our time of instruction ends, and I leave the church. The street outside is busy, and I am so preoccupied by the conversation I just had that I nearly walk straight into Antonio, who is standing directly in my path and looking more than a little tense.

"Have you any time to spare now? I would speak with you, at your leisure."

I stop dead and stare at him as if he had grown devil's horns. "When did you come to be so courteous?"

Antonio glares at me, clearly irked. "I do possess good manners, though I may not always use them. Unlike you, who would not know politeness if it stood before you blowing a trumpet in your constantly-scowling face."

"Your good manners are used so rarely with me that I nearly suspected you had gone mad based on your greeting," I point out. "I was tempted to inquire who you were and what you had done with Signor Antonio."

"I can always insult you and reassure you of my identity."

"No need, your insults are predictable enough that I can imagine them. Just tell me what you came for."

"Your imagination is one cruel force," Antonio mutters, then speaks aloud. "My business partner and I need an investor."

"And?" I raise an eyebrow. "What has that to do with me? No doubt you will acquire one and mention it at random and I will not much care."

"You are the most exasperating..." Antonio throws up his hands. "I did not come here because I relish your insults. I came because I thought you would be a reliable investor."

Am I insane, or is Antonio drunk? "What? Do you have leeches in your brain? Do you not remember what happened last time I lent you money?"

"Do not be toad-witted. You have put too much work into keeping me alive to cut out my heart."

He has a point there, but that only exasperates me more. I shoot him a venomous look. "This is not a jesting matter, Antonio."

"And I do not jest. You are the one being ridiculous. I am not asking you for a loan, I am asking you for an investment. It would be of benefit to both of us."

"Last time I did official business with you, I lost half my wealth, so you must forgive me if I do not—"

"You think nothing has changed since then?" Antonio interrupts hotly. "You think I carry no regret at all? Why must you believe the worst of me?"

We have changed. Antonio is not the man he once was and nor am I. The knowledge of that utterly confounds me, and I try to cover it up with my usual mask of anger. "I do not enjoy being mocked!"

"Why do you think I am mocking you?"

"Why else would you seek me out, when others could easily perform the same office?"

"Because I trust you!"

The words hit me like a millstone to the chest. Yes, Brother Rafaele had said the same thing, and I could acknowledge that. But never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined Antonio admitting it was true.

It takes some effort, but I recover my voice. "I have done little to deserve that. Why do you trust me?"

Antonio stares at me, clearly incredulous. "You are not even jesting. You truly do not know."

"If I knew, would I have asked?"

"You have no idea why I trust you. Verily."

"Can you do nothing but repeat yourself today?" I demand, irritated. "I nearly killed you over a debt and I have mocked and insulted you at our every meeting. I hardly—"

"By all the saints…" Antonio sounds as if he's ready to throttle me. "For a man who always insists on a tidy kitchen, you would do well to clean out your _mind!"_

"What?"

"Do you get some kind of sick pleasure from lingering constantly on the terrible things you have done and disregarding all the good?"

"Of course not. Who would take pleasure in—"

"Well, you certainly act as if you do. Why else would you carry around this vision of yourself as a devil with a bloody knife who cares for nothing but coin?"

The man is a raving idiot. Will I have to lock him up for his own safety? "Most of Venice sees me that way, in case you had not noticed."

Antonio raises his eyes to the heavens as if asking for patience. "I had noticed that, in fact. I have also noticed something you seem to have missed, which is that most of Venice is _wrong."_

I refuse to allow myself to think about that. "Stop mocking me. I have no daughter, no friends, and no conscience."

"That's four mistakes in twelve words. A record, even for you."

"Excuse me?"

"I am not mocking you. I am absolutely serious. You have a conscience, or you would not subject yourself to my insults and utter incompetence at making challah simply to keep my sanity intact—"

"Keep your voice down!" I hiss. "Do you want the city knowing you celebrate Shabbat?"

Antonio ignores me and goes on. "You have friends—Ignazio and Tubal, at the very least. And you have a daughter, or you will, if you are not too proud to forgive her."

"Jessica does not need or want my forgiveness."

"And what if I told you she did?"

Hope leaps up within me, and the habits of years order me to crush it. "Leave me alone." I turn to go.

But Antonio grabs my shoulder before I get more than a step from him. "Oh, no. You are not walking away from me now, not when I can help. I owe you that much."

"Antonio, you clearly have rust in your ears, or you would have heard me the first dozen times I said you owe me nothing."

"That is a kindness, but 'tis untrue. Besides, Jessica does not deserve your hatred, though she might have once deserved your anger. And you deserve a family."

And, going against every cautionary instinct I ought to possess, the truth tumbles out of my mouth. "I have a family, you dolt. I have you."

Were I not busy wishing I could spontaneously evaporate, I would take a great deal of glee in the utter and complete shock on Antonio's face. As it is, though, I am too horrified by my own impulsive words to even try and contradict them. Terror wells up in me—but 'tis not the terror I might once have felt in this man's presence, fear of being mocked or kicked. 'Tis the terror of more loss. Of losing someone I care about—not to death or a Christian marriage this time, but to derision and disgust.

Once, I could easily have hidden this terror in numbness, as I did when Leah died, or in anger, as I did when Jessica left. But that time is gone. I have become, I realize, too disillusioned with my own shields to use them now.

Antonio takes a breath. "That you are willing to say such a thing is—perhaps the greatest praise I have ever received." Before I can recover my reeling thoughts enough to respond to _that,_ he continues. "I know you are capable of getting by on your own, Shylock. But you do not have to be alone. And as somebody who has often been alone, let me tell you, 'tis not a thing to aim for. Jessica would be reconciled with you, and—I think even if you do not forgive her fully, she would take comfort from knowing you love her."

I have been so used to thinking of Jessica as my betrayer and nothing else. But it occurs to me now that the father Jessica betrayed no longer exists. I think of the Shylock of a year ago, railing on the Rialto about his lost jewels, and though I understand that man and his rage, I no longer desire to be him.

And I am not.

Even more than that, though I would never admit this, Antonio is mistaken about my being fully capable of getting by on my own. My tolerance (as far as it goes) of Ignazio's babbling and Rosalba's constant jumpiness, my dining with Tubal and Naomi, my arguments with Brother Rafaele, and more than anything else, my celebrating Shabbat every week with Antonio—it is as much for me as for them. I am not the devil with the knife, I am human, and humans need other humans.

"You asked me why I trust you." Antonio is no longer looking directly at me, but eyeing the cobblestones by my feet as if they hold some great secret. "'Tis not only because you saved my life and did me good. 'Tis because I see myself in you."

That shocks me out of my silence. "How so?"

"We have both lost people we love through betrayal. We have both betrayed others, and sinned. But mostly, we have both been hurt because of who we are." Antonio finally raises his eyes to mine. "Once I despised you for that. Now, I trust you for it."

I have no idea what to say to this, so I say nothing. Antonio sighs. "Shall I tell Jessica, then, that you do not wish to see her?"

"Tell her…" I am being given a choice, I realize. A chance I never thought I would get. And I know, abruptly, that if I waste it, I will feel regret for the rest of my life. "Tell her I will see her. I do not want to see Lorenzo. But I will see her…if she so wishes."

"Do you _mind?"_ someone snaps from behind me. "You are blocking this walk!"

We hastily step out of the way to let the impatient stranger through. I am immediately aware of how intimate a conversation we have been having in a public street, and it seems Antonio is as well, for he mutters something in my general direction about considering an investment, and then hurries off.

As for myself, I nearly knock several people over on my way home—for once not on purpose, but because I am so preoccupied with the conversations I have just had. Even when I enter my own house, I barely can keep my mind on putting one foot in front of the other.

_You do not wish to make yourself vulnerable by admitting you care about anyone…Do you realize that you are nearly as cruel to yourself as those who hate you?...You have a daughter, or you will, if you are not too proud to forgive her...That you are willing to say such a thing is perhaps the greatest praise I have ever received…We have both been hurt because of who we are. Once I despised you for that. Now, I trust you for it._

"Master Shylock!"

I blink and turn to see Ignazio. "What is it?"

"You were about to walk into the table."

This is so, I realize. I take a good three steps away, not trusting my mind to keep me from knocking it right over. "Where is thy wife? Has she finished the sewing?"

"Yes, and now she is tending to Teresa." Ignazio beams. "She took her first steps today! Teresa, that is, not Rosalba."

"Thou art absurd," I inform him, then pause a moment. "How dost thou do it?"

"Be absurd? 'Tis harder than one might think, but I always begin by—"

"No, thou clodpole." I wave this off. "How dost thou love people so? I cannot."

"Nonsense," Ignazio informs me. "You are merely out of practice." He skips off, whistling.

I only wish it were so simple.


	7. An Open Door

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by Anbessette. Many thanks!

"Signor Antonio!" Brother Rafaele greets me with his customary cheer and closes his Bible as I step into the room. "You seem much recovered." 

"I took your advice and am eating more, at least." I take the seat towards which he gestures me.

Brother Rafaele smiles. "Because Signor Shylock practically forces food down your throat?"

If I had been holding anything, I would have dropped it. "How by heaven did you know—"

"Perhaps you have forgotten that I instruct Signor Shylock in the faith? On at least two occasions, he has stormed in and begun insulting you for being—what were his words? Ah, yes—such a beetle-brained milksop when it comes to food."

I laugh at the amused-but-exasperated tone in which Brother Rafaele quotes Shylock. "I still do not understand how he knew I was not eating."

"That mystery, I can solve for you. I told him."

"You told him?" I stare at Brother Rafaele. "Why?"

"Because I was fairly sure he would do something. I despair of teaching the man to respect our faith, but I doubted he would let you starve to death if he could prevent it."

"He has done more for me than I know how to repay." I frown. "I only wish I knew why."

"I have been thinking on that." Brother Rafaele flips the pages of his Bible back and forth. "Have you considered that perhaps he is doing for you what he wish somebody had done for him when he was in need?"

"What?" I blink. "No. I had not considered that."

"Well, perhaps you might."

"But why help _me,_ if he wishes to help anybody? He despises me."

Brother Rafaele shakes his head. "Why do you both insist on behaving as if you hate each other? 'Tis quite clear that you do not."

I'm ready to deny this, but shut my mouth. Brother Rafaele is, as usual, correct. "Perhaps our—pride—will not allow us to do otherwise."

"I might have guessed that."

For a moment, I hesitate. "I wish I could do something for _him._ But I doubt he would accept any gift at my hands unless he had no choice."

"Were I you, I would try anyway," Brother Rafaele tells me. "I must go—one of my brothers wishes to speak with me. But if you continue to be puzzled…perhaps you might read Ephesians 2:19."

"Ephesians 2:19?" My knowledge of the Bible is not so great that I know which verse he means. "Which is that?"

"Read it and find out."

**OoOoO**

The spice merchant stares at my note, then at me. "Signor, you truly wish to order—"

"Yes, I do truly wish to order that much saffron," I inform him. "I am aware of the expense. Can you provide it?"

"I—yes, of course. Pardon me, I merely wished to be sure. It will be quite costly, but if you are willing to pay—"

"I am. Will you see that it is delivered on time?"

The spice merchant nods fervently. I suspect I have much brightened his day with the coin I have promised him. "Yes, Signor! You shall have it as soon as may be."

"Good."

We exchange a few more pleasantries before I leave his place of business and set off for Lorenzo and Jessica's house. As of yet, I have not told Jessica that Shylock does wish to speak with her, and I hope the conversation will bring them—well, I dare not think it will bring them joy, but hopefully not further estrangement.

Lorenzo opens the door wide. "Antonio, do come in! Thou wilt be much surprised, I think, to see thy fellow guests."

"My fellow guests?" I follow him down the hall.

"Indeed! They are only just come, and have expressed a great desire to see thee." Lorenzo leads me into the room where we dine, beaming. "Though I fear one of them, at least, shall out-talk us both."

"Who—?" I begin, and then see Gratiano and Nerissa, seated at table with Jessica.

Gratiano rises to greet me, with every appearance of delight. "Antonio, thou art recovered, I see. Bassanio told us thou hadst been ill."

"Ah. Yes…but as thou say'st, I am well now." 'Tis like Gratiano to be friendly, but I am rather put off by how eager he seems to pretend that my 'illness' was merely that. Unlike Lorenzo and Jessica, Gratiano and his wife had been at Belmont when Portia discovered Bassanio and me—and they had believed the lie of my having forced him. Though I knew Bassanio had told them the truth, 'tis difficult to reconcile the warmth I am receiving now with the fury I received then.

"Perhaps 'tis too much to hope that thy illness has made thee less somber? Has taught thee to laugh at thyself? For since I have known thee, thou hast suffered greatly from a malady of melancholy."

"Husband mine," Nerissa warns, laughing. "'Tis hardly charitable to suggest sickness might improve a man's character."

I smile at them. "Gratiano is right, however. I suffer often from such maladies, but am much improved upon seeing thee and thy husband."

"I am glad of that," Gratiano replies. "For I fear Lorenzo has already tired of me. He has advised me several times that if I continue talking so, my tongue may drop off altogether."

"No, no." Lorenzo holds up his hands. "Do not put blame on me. I merely fear thy constant chattering will make me grow deaf. And what wouldst thou do then, with no one to listen to thee?"

"I shall always have someone to listen to me." Gratiano smirks at Nerissa. "Why dost thou think I married?"

Nerissa turns to Jessica and mock-whispers in her ear. "The fool thinks I pay mind to him. But we shall not disabuse him, shall we?"

"Indeed, we shall not," Jessica replies, then sends Lorenzo a mischievous look. "Why, I have tried the same trick on my own husband many a time. I assure thee, men never notice."

The food is as good as usual, but I am by no means at ease. Gratiano talks a great deal, even for him, but I can sense the discomfort—what might be guilt for his own doubt in me—underneath the jesting. Nerissa does her best to be kind and spirited, but I suspect the former maid's loyalties lie with Portia, and the fact that I might have once been considered some sort of rival for Bassanio's love does not endear me to her. I catch Jessica looking at the three of us with barely-veiled curiosity—'tis clear she senses all things are not right, but has no way of knowing why. Only Lorenzo seems quite oblivious, refilling wine cups left and right and meeting even the most forced of Gratiano's jests with appreciative laughter. This does not help and I rapidly find myself wishing I were elsewhere.

Eventually Nerissa declares herself tired, and that she wishes to withdraw. Jessica departs with her, to be sure all is right with the room in which she and Gratiano are to stay, leaving the three of us alone.

Waving his cup, Lorenzo interrupts Gratiano, who is about to go into a story about three fishwives outside the Duke's palace. "That was a pretty tale, Gratiano, but thou hast spoken of it already. Now that thy wife is gone, thou must tell us how thou dost enjoy her, and whether thou dost enjoy any others on the sly." He winks. "Surely she cannot drown thee in the canal for it, if she does not hear."

I suppress a sigh. 'Tis customary for my friends to speak of wives and mistresses so, when they are out of hearing, and once I hardly took note of it. However, the past months, reckoned up, have had me more in Ignazio and Shylock's company, and neither speak of women in such a way. Not until now have I found that odd.

"Thou dost wound me, Lorenzo, to suggest such a thing!" Gratiano's dramatics make it clear Lorenzo has done nothing of the sort. "But I cannot blame thee. For thou hast never lain with my wife, or thou wouldst know that she is enough woman for any man."

"I know thee well, Gratiano." Lorenzo snorts. "There is no such thing as enough women for thee."

"I shall be forced to starve, then. But thou art more famished than me, I should think, for unless _thou_ hast been feasting on the sly, thy only banquet is a Jew's daughter."

Lorenzo merely laughs—no doubt he is used to hearing such things—but I do not. Though I can hardly tell why, words that might once have brought me a smile now leave a sour taste in my mouth. Something of this must show on my face, for both my friends look at me with raised eyebrows. "Is there aught the matter, Antonio?" Lorenzo inquires.

I wave him off, as confused as they by my reaction. "Nothing at all."

"He feels pity for thy starved state," Gratiano declares. "Now, Lorenzo, wilt thou be content to sate thyself on a Jew's carrion flesh?"

"Art thou mad with wine?" I demand before I can stop myself. 'Tis entirely possible, with how often his cup has been filled tonight.

"My wife is no Jew," Lorenzo informs Gratiano. "How she was born is of no matter, and I will thank thee not to speak of her so. Come, do not spoil our evening with poor jests."

"Do not take offense so. I meant no insult to thy lady wife, who, as thou say'st, is a good Christian." Gratiano grins at me. "Why, even her father, a pox on him, is a Christian these days, thanks to our Antonio."

Yes, thanks to my spite and desire for revenge, Shylock now wears a mask of faith, forced on him by one who has sinned as much as he. I once might have felt pride and satisfaction at Gratiano's words—now I feel thoroughly sick.

Gratiano, despite my fervent and silent wishes that he shut his mouth on this subject, talks on. "Yet the fair Jessica is a _good_ Christian, and I would wager a purse of ducats her father's heart is still a dog's. 'Tis merely a pity we cannot mock him as he deserves, for some never leave the gutter—"

"Antonio?" Lorenzo cuts in, sounding concerned. "Art thou well?"

Well is hardly the word I should use—I'm clenching my teeth in an effort to stay quiet. "I am fine, I thank thee," I finally grit out, attempting to hide the anger that would only puzzle my host and fellow guest.

"I do apologize." Gratiano looks contrite. "I did not mean to upset thee by speaking of Shylock. Thou wert merciful at the trial, but I think thou wouldst have done better, had thou merely given him leave to hang himself. A rope's end is the only thing fit for—"

I stand up so abruptly my chair clatters to the floor. His words, which I would happily have spoken myself months ago, now make me long to spit venom. "Thou know'st nothing of Shylock, nor of me, if thou art willing to speak so." Both Lorenzo and Gratiano look shocked, and I am nearly as surprised as they, but I go on. "Had I given him leave to hang himself, I would be dead. He saved my life, took me from that very gutter thou speak'st of, whilst thou believed the lies and left me to the mercy of a mob."

Lorenzo frowns. "What lies? And what is this mob thou speak'st of?"

Gratiano is staring. "Art thou mad with wine thyself?"

"No," I snap. "I have drunk no wine tonight at all. And I wish thou wouldst not speak of Shylock and Jessica as if they were mud in the streets, for neither deserves that."

"I understand thee not. I expected thou wouldst join our jests—"

"They are calumny, not jests. And verily, I might have joined thee once, but I have learned better. And if thou hadst not kept away for months, thou might have realized that already." I turn to Lorenzo, who is clearly shocked. "My apologies for leaving so early, but I find I am not well. Thou wilt excuse me." Without another word, I turn and walk from the room, shutting the door behind me—

And nearly run into Jessica, who hastily steps back. "I am sorry, Signor Antonio." She is blushing in embarrassment. "I merely—I did not mean to eavesdrop. I simply—I simply wished to know what my husband says of me when he thinks I cannot hear."

'Tis a sentiment I can understand. "There is no need to worry. As you must have heard, he spoke no ill of you."

"But Signor Gratiano spoke ill of my father, and you defended him." Jessica frowns. "Why?"

"I hardly know," I confess. "Save, perhaps, that it would have seemed the basest sort of ingratitude _not_ to defend him." I pause. "There was no chance to tell you earlier—but he does wish to see you. He does not wish to see Lorenzo, but he will see you, if you so desire."

The surprise—and hope—on Jessica's face is clear. "I—I do. Will you go with me, then, since Lorenzo must not?"

"I should be glad to. When I next dine with you and your husband, we shall find a time."

"Thank you." Jessica hesitates. "Are you truly leaving?"

"Yes. I fear I have found naught but discomfort tonight. Though that is none of your doing," I hasten to add.

"I am sorry, nonetheless. Farewell for now, Signor Antonio." Jessica goes back into the room where we dined. A servant lets me out the door, and I begin to make my way home, my head still whirling in confusion.

What I told Jessica is true, certainly. It would have been ungrateful to allow Shylock to be so insulted after all he has done for me. Yet I am not sure that is truly why I did it. For if it were merely a matter of honor, of fulfilling a debt, why would I grow so angry as to knock over a chair and storm out of the room?

Shylock's words outside the church come back to me. _I have a family, you dolt. I have you._

I have refused to acknowledge the truth for so long, but now I have little choice but to see it. Shylock _is_ family. And that is a stronger tie than what holds me to my friends, even what held me to my lovers, because true family does not shut the door when a man is in need. Family are the people who, when you must go to them, they must take you in.

When I finally arrive home, I take out the records of Vicenzo's and my business venture, and begin attempting to reckon up our gains and losses. But my mind is so distracted that I find I cannot concentrate on the numbers. Suddenly I remember the verse Brother Rafaele advised me to read, Ephesians 2:19. I open my Bible and find it.

_So then you are no longer strangers and aliens, but you are citizens with the saints, and also members of the household of God._

**Shylock**

As I walk back from dining with Tubal and Naomi under the darkening sky, I find myself wondering—if I could go back, if I could choose never to enter into the bond with Antonio and Bassanio, knowing what I know now—what would I do?

'Tis a question, I realize, I could never truly answer. For knowing what I know now, the idea of demanding a pound of flesh as collateral for a bond repulses me. And I fervently wish I were still a Jew, for mocked as they are, I am one at heart and to practice my faith only behind closed doors is painful. But had I never entered into that bond, the chain of events that ended with Antonio landing injured on my doorstep would not have been set in motion—and I would still be furious and hateful, longing for revenge I could never have.

I would still be alone.

"Master Shylock!" I turn and see, to my surprise, Rosalba hurrying down the street behind me. "You must not go home now."

"What dost thou mean?" I demand, irritated. The day has been a long one and I am wishing for rest.

Rosalba slides to a halt, breathing hard as if she has run a great distance. "There are men outside your house, men with much drink in them. They demanded of Ignazio when you would return, and when he said he did not know, they tried to hit him. He has bolted the door upon them, but they wait outside still. You must not go home until they are gone!"

Terror swamps me. Ever since the trial, I have feared something of this sort. "How didst thou leave the house to warn me?"

"I climbed out a window in the back. I have been searching for you ever since. Can you not return to Signor Tubal's house for the night?"

"Tubal's house? I could—" I stop as I realize that I cannot do any such thing. "No. 'Tis in the ghetto, and the ghetto is locked." I try to gather my wits together, but I seem incapable of thought. It may shame me to be so frightened, but I know what such men are capable of, especially when they have wine and hatred in them.

"I know! Signor Antonio. You may go to him, I am sure."

What? Go to Antonio for help? What if he refuses? Last time he gave me aid, it ended in the loss of his financer. What if—

"Master Shylock!" Rosalba shakes my arm. "I do not think we should delay."

'Tis Rosalba's insistence, when she is usually so hesitant to demand anything, that shakes sense into me. "Thou art correct, we should not." 'Tis at least a place to start.

Antonio's house is not far, and that is fortunate, for my mind is swift to remind me of my ventures with mobs—the jeers, the hurled rocks, the bruises and cuts and broken bones. I do not know what I shall do, where I shall go, if Antonio turns me away, unless it is to walk the streets all night—a prospect almost as dangerous as it would seem returning to my house now is.

The servant Pietro answers the door when we arrive. "Signor Shylock. I did not know you were to come tonight."

"We had not planned it so," I reply, struggling to keep my voice steady. "Still, I must speak to Antonio. Wilt thou tell him I am here?"

Pietro hesitates. "He is…in rather a temper now. If you will—"

"I am not seeing anyone tonight!" Antonio's voice comes from his study. "I have had enough of visiting and visitors."

To my shock, Rosalba pushes past Pietro and runs into the house. "Signor Antonio, you must let Master Shylock in! He has nowhere else to go."

There are rapid footsteps on the other side of the door, and Antonio appears. "Shylock? Why are you out so late?"

"'Tis hardly my choice," I snap, trying to keep my increasing panic hidden.

Antonio clearly sees it anyway. "What is wrong?"

"Rosalba came to tell me—" I choke on the words, then clear my throat and go on. "Rosalba came to tell me there is a drunken mob outside my house. That they are looking for me. I dare not return there."

"Come in, now." Before I can actually move on my own, Antonio has pulled me inside, slammed the door shut, and turned to his servant. "If any come to the door tonight, do not answer it." Pietro bows and leaves the room, and Antonio looks back at me. "Will you not call up the law on them?"

"What law?" I ask bitterly. "What law of Venice takes the word of a converted Jew over the words of born Christians, no matter their malice? Were they to speak against me to the wrong people, I could end in an even worse state than I am now."

Antonio opens his mouth and shuts it. Rosalba glances between us, twisting her hands in her skirt.

Suddenly I find myself dizzy, swaying on my feet—'tis an aftereffect of my panic, I know. For a moment, I am sure I will fall, but then Antonio is on my right and Rosalba is on my left, and they are helping me to sit on a nearby bench. Furious with myself for showing such weakness, I stare at the floor, refusing to meet their eyes.

"You must stay here until it is safe for you to return," Antonio says firmly. "None will think to look for you at my house, and even if they did, I would not allow them to harm you. The only way anyone shall take you out that door against your will is if they put me in a coffin and take me first."

I jerk my head up and stare at him, shocked and confused by the words. They simply cannot be true. "Do not be an addled wretch. You would not go to such lengths to protect me. Nobody would."

Antonio looks stung, then angry. "You think I would hand you over to be beaten, or worse? I trust you—do you not trust me at all?"

"I know not," I admit. "I expected to be turned away, for when you helped me last time, it gave you no profit."

"I need earn no _profit_ for helping you!"

"How was I to know?"

"Do you earn a profit for helping me?"

"No, but—"

"Then I should not require any of you," Antonio retorts. "'Tis but justice."

Justice? I have to stop myself from gaping like an idiot. Less than nine months ago, I would have sworn by every ship in Venice that people can never truly change. Perhaps the evidence otherwise has been staring me in the face—but until now, I have avoided acknowledging it. Now I cannot. The Antonio who triumphed in converting me and depriving me of wealth at the trial, is not the same Antonio who is watching me now with anger and worry in his eyes. Whether he realizes it or not, what he means by justice has been turned on its head.

Or perhaps not. For justice means returning in kind what one is given. Perhaps it is not the meaning of justice that has changed, but what I have given him—mercy, where I could have given cruelty. Which he is now returning in kind.

"Shylock? Are you alright?"

"I hardly know," I confess. "I had not thought of it that way. And I—I am afraid. I fear now I will never truly be safe." A part of me is shocked that I am admitting this aloud, while another part of me wonders why I have not done so sooner.

Antonio hesitates a moment. "I cannot promise you will be safe. I do not think anyone could. But you should never pause in coming to me for help."

I look from him to Rosalba. Perhaps I am the greater fool for not realizing it sooner—but there are people, few as they may be, who care what happens to me. Ignazio and Rosalba care enough to risk the fury of a mob to warn me, Antonio cares enough to stand between me and a world that would offer little but harshness.

And despite my fear, that knowledge softens a place in me that has been hard as stone for more than a decade.

'Tis no surprise that none of the three of us sleep at all that night. In order that I not go completely insane, I insist that Antonio show me the gains and losses his trade has had over the past month or so. I manage to point out three tax loopholes that he and his business partner are not taking advantage of, inform him how much coin they are losing due to that, and insult them both repeatedly for not noticing it, which makes me feel somewhat better. Somewhere between being called a wasteful lout and a tedious foot-licker, Antonio wrangles a promise out of me to partner in business with them. The irony in the air is so thick I'm surprised I can still breathe normally.

Ignazio comes just before dawn to inform us that the mob left a number of hours ago, their drunkenness evidently winning out over their patience, but that he is only now sure none of them are still loitering about. The fact that Ignazio seemed to know without being told where I would be does not escape me, but I choose to ignore this.

I may have changed, but I am still fully capable of refusing to admit how much.

**OoOoO**

"If you pace any more, Master Shylock, you shall wear a hole in the floor," Ignazio declares. "You have nothing to fear from your own daughter."

"Thou art as clay-brained as usual," I snap at him. "My daughter abandoned her faith and me. It was folly to agree to see her. No doubt she will come to jeer, like all the rest."

"Come, you always think the worst of people," Ignazio chides me.

"Yes, and I prefer it that way." Though it would no doubt befit me better to wait for Jessica's arrival seated calmly in a chair, I find myself unable to stay still. "I am less often disappointed."

"Verily?" Ignazio says innocently. "It seems to me you are disappointed as often as the rest of us."

I am about to snarl at him again when there is a knock at the door, and the harsh words die before they reach my mouth. That must be Jessica—Antonio said they would come at this time. I suddenly find myself unable to move, and it is Ignazio who answers the door. Antonio steps through first, and then—

There she is. A woman familiar and yet a stranger, Jessica looks as discomfited as I feel. "Father. I—I am glad to see you well."

"Art thou, truly?" I demand before I can think. "Or art thou ashamed of me?"

Jessica flinches. This truly was a mistake. Whatever love I have for my daughter, my pride will not allow me to show it.

Antonio glares at me. "Do not act the fool, Shylock. If Jessica were ashamed of you, why would she be here?"

"He is not wrong to ask," Jessica said quietly. "I would have come to see you long before now, but you are right, in a way. I was afraid my husband and friends would shame me for doing so."

"Then why didst thou come?"

"Because I changed my mind. Signor Antonio has spoken of how you helped him. If you are willing to give charity to a man you have hated so, then I care not what others think or say of you."

I look at Antonio, shocked. "You spoke of me to Jessica?"

Antonio nods briefly. "I stayed with them for a time, after I left your house."

That explains nothing as far as I am concerned, but now is not the time to question him. I look back at Jessica. She seems well, but—"Art thou happy? In thy marriage? Does Lorenzo treat thee well?"

Jessica stands straight. "Very well. I could not ask for a better husband."

I hear her words, but it is her expression and posture I watch. Anyone who has been a moneylender for years, as I have, can tell easily if somebody is lying. And I can see that Jessica is telling the truth. Lorenzo, however much I might dislike him, has at least done right by her. "Good."

"What?" Jessica stares at me. "I did not—I hardly thought you would term any part of my marriage good."

"As it happens, that is the _only_ part I term good," I say dryly. "I am not pleased, nor will I ever be, that thou fled my house, or that thou converted, or that thou married a Christian. But if Lorenzo treats thee well, I shall at least refrain from killing him and making thee a widow."

"How courteous of you." Antonio rolls his eyes. "Ignazio, kindly show me elsewhere so Shylock and Jessica may speak alone. I do not wish to intrude."

"Gladly, Signor Antonio. Why, if you are fortunate, you may even glimpse the new kind of songbird I have recently discovered…" Ignazio leads Antonio from the room.

I look at Jessica, whose eyes are fixed on the floor. "Did Antonio truly speak to thee of me?"

Jessica nods. "He is—I can hardly believe he may be your friend, but the way he acts…when Signor Gratiano began insulting you, he practically stormed out of our house."

"Truly?"

"Yes."

God only knows what Jessica made of that, when I barely know what to make of it myself.

An awkward silence falls between us. Words fail me too often—'tis actions that serve better, and though this particular action will be hard, I promised myself I would do it. "I have something for thee. Thou may not care for it, but…"

Jessica looks up, clearly puzzled. "Something for me? What?"

"Here." I hold out Leah's turquoise ring. "Tubal bought it back. I thought perhaps thou might treasure it more now than before."

"You are willing…" Jessica's eyes are wide. "You know how I gave it up carelessly, yet you are willing to return it to me?"

"I have precious memories of thy mother. Thou, I would guess, hardly remember her." I pause. "But if thou dost not want—"

"But I do." Jessica's eyes drop again. "I was angry with you, when I traded it away. Perhaps—perhaps I was also angry with my mother, for dying before I could know her."

"She loved thee dearly, and—" I stop, then force myself to go on. "And I love thee."

"What?" Jessica's head shoots up. "You…"

"I will never be able to show it as Leah could have. As perhaps thy husband does." I take a breath. "But 'tis true, nevertheless. As well as I am able to love anyone, I love thee."

"I thank you for that," Jessica says softly.

So with clumsy words and acts of trust, I begin, slowly, to piece my life back together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ends the first part of Friday Night Candles. The story has been so divided for this reason: in part two, there shall be slash—not sexually explicit, but there. I am aware that kind of thing is not to everybody's taste, and therefore have tried to give a little closure in this chapter, in case you wish to stop reading after it. As always I welcome feedback, but flames on the immorality of homosexuality shall be ignored.


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